


Toby

by blueskydog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, Mystery, Sherlock - Freeform, Toby the dog - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:22:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 42,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9380126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskydog/pseuds/blueskydog
Summary: A Pre-Reichenbach Adventure. A stray dog turns up on the front step of 221B Baker Street. John knows that there's more to this dog's story than meets the eye, but Sherlock will have nothing to do with it. John tries to figure out where the dog came from, but there are some mysteries only Sherlock Holmes can solve...or so it seems.





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It Begins

She closed her laptop, rose from her desk slowly, and glanced around the room at the disarray—the papers and books, empty coffee mugs, her living room and kitchen spilling over into one another so that she had trouble remembering which was where—and simply shook her head. Now was not the time. She couldn’t deal with this mountain; she had to get over the other one first.

Walking over to her bedroom across the hall, her tiny apartment seemed even tinier in the wake of her problems and the mess she’d managed to make in the past few days. What was happening to her? She used to have such an organized life—she used to have control over things. What was going on?

“Here, boy,” she called out suddenly, and her little dog came frolicking over. She knelt to let him lick her face as his tail swished through the air. “It’ll be okay,” she murmured in his ear—more for her comfort than his, as she tried her hardest to make his life, at least, stay relatively sane. He rubbed against her face causing her to laugh. He, at least, managed to not remind her of her problems.

“Come on, boy, let’s get to bed,” she said. He happily followed her to the bed and hopped up beside her as she flopped onto it. Rolling onto her back, she let him crawl onto her stomach. Though small he was not a lap dog, and though his mass made it difficult for her to breath, she still enjoyed his being there and let him stay. Closing her eyes, listening to his happy murmuring, and stroking his fur, she began to drift off.

Her mobile buzzed just then. Startled, she jerked her head up, causing her dog to flinch and roll off her stomach. “Sorry,” she muttered sheepishly, leaning over to dig her mobile out of the bag on the floor. Her dog watched as she flipped it open, the harsh, weird light casting over here face. He could see her face. And it was one of dread.

She stared at the text on the screen, her panic mounting. _No…no…no. They can’t have. How could they have found me? It’s a trick, it must be!_ She sat up straight and tried to control her breathing. _It must be!_ Her dog nuzzled her questioningly. Grabbing him in a hug, she dropped the phone on the floor. Its harsh light ticked out.

“Mer-r-f,” he dog said.

“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered fiercely. “Let’s go for a walk,” she said louder, to which he wriggled in joy, leaping from her arms and off the bed. Barking merrily, he danced over to the drawer that held his leash and collar. The woman climbed out of the bed and followed him, still shaking in fright. She had to get some air. Be anywhere but here. She had to go do something. Taking her dog outside, she left the still-open mobile on the floor, far, far from her.

 

 


	2. The Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds a dog. Sherlock is not amused.

Stray dogs exist. Everyone knows that.  
             
And quite unfortunately there are areas that are overrun with them, areas where pets are abandoned heartbreakingly frequently, and the uncontrolled populations keep spreading to the point that they are everywhere—in the street, in the alleys, in the parks…lost dogs, abandoned dogs, rejected dogs. There are places where such things are unfortunately common.

John knew this to be true. But he also knew Baker Street isn’t one of them.

And yet here he was, a scruffy little dog, skinny as a bone. He wasn’t wearing a collar. He looked lost, abandoned. John Watson knew that look when he saw it. And it made him sad.

So—partially out of basic compassion for all life, and partially because John was a sucker for dogs—he walked up to it. The dog glanced at him but did not run away. _He must be used to humans_ , John thought. _He used to be a pet_.

“Hello there,” John said around an armful of brown paper grocery bags. Again the dog simply glanced at him as he sat on the sidewalk. It was then John noticed that the dog seemed to be staring at something. Coming closer, he tilted his head to see at the dog’s angle, and saw: the dog was staring straight at the door labeled 221B. And that’s where John lived. That’s where he was taking his groceries.

There was something unnerving in the intensity of the dog’s stare. The dog looked so determined, as if expecting the answer to some unsolvable doggy question would come waltzing out of there at any moment.

“Hello,” John said again, kneeling this time. The paper bags crinkled loudly in his grip and the dog leaped away, tail swishing apprehensively. John froze, staring, wishing the dog would stay. _Stay, stay,_ his brain whispered; _I want to help you._ He couldn’t bear to think of this poor little dog roaming the streets on its own. There were too many cabs—too many cars—too many things that could run this little dog down.

The dog stayed. He stared at John, then settled back down on his haunches, and cocked his head.

Was that an invitation to try again? Gingerly John laid his bags on the front step of 221B and crouched next to them. Slowly he extended his hand, allowing the dog to come to him if he wished. The dog regarded him a moment. The he rose slowly, neck stretched toward the strange hand and nose crimping as he inhaled the scent of John. John held back a giggle as the dog’s hot breath tickled his wrist. The cold, moist nose then pressed into his palm, as if accepting him as a possible ally. John carefully positioned his fingers under the dog’s chin and gave him a scratch. The dog leaned into him, eyelids drooping, which John took to mean he liked it.

“Good boy,” he said quietly. He dog’s ear’s pricked up at the sound. _He knows those words,_ John mused. What kind of family had the dog lived in before being kicked out? Who would have the heart to praise a dog and then chuck it? Not very nice people, John reasoned.

There was, of course, the possibility that the dog was simply lost, looking for his home. In that case John was obligated to help him. He could turn him in. There were people who knew how to reunite dogs with their families. But what if he had been abandoned? Or—and this a possibility as well—what if the dog had run away from a cruel owner? In that case the last thing John wanted to do was reunite them.

What should he do?

The dog broke free of his massage and looked to the door. 221B. Of course. Home of the world’s only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

John grinned at the dog, flabbergasted. “Now how on earth did you know that?” he said. The dog’s tail swished through the air at John’s voice. _Let’s go in,_ he seemed to be pleading.

Well, why not? If anyone could solve the mystery of this dog’s origin, it was Sherlock Holmes. He’d been bored lately, restless. He needed a challenge. He could probably tell who owned—or used to own—this dog just by looking at it.

John rose—slowly so as not to frighten the dog—and stepped up to the door. He wondered briefly if Mrs. Hudson had a “No Dogs” policy. _I suppose I’ll find out,_ he thought.

He unlocked the door, opened it, and glanced inside. The dog watched him expectantly. The hall was empty and there was no one on the stair. John stepped in. “Mrs. Hudson?” he called.

He heard a skittering behind him and turned to see the dog scampering into the house. “No—wait,” John whispered fiercely, trying to catch him. But the dog evaded him merrily and danced down the hall, nose darting to and fro as he tried to smell everything at once, tail whipping back and forth.

John started after him, then remembered the groceries and turned around. But couldn’t the groceries wait? There was a dog on the loose. He turned back. But no—he had to get the bags. Besides, he couldn’t leave the door open. He darted out, grabbed the groceries, darted back in, tried to close the door, and promptly spilled the contents of his bags on the floor.

“Stupid!” he growled at himself. Now what?  
             
He heard a yelp from the kitchen. Oh dear.  
  
“Mrs. Hudson?” he called with trepidation.

"John!” came the high-pitched reply. John started for the kitchen. “There’s a dog in here!”

“Coming,” John called out. He stepped quickly into the kitchen to see Mrs. Hudson staring down at the dog, which stared up at her. Her clenched hands were held near her face as if to ward off an impending attack. The dog grinned and swished his tail.

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” John said, “he slipped in while I was carrying in the groceries…”

Mrs. Hudson glanced at him fearfully. “Will it bite? Does it have rabies?”

“No,” John said quickly, “I’m sure it doesn’t have rabies.”

Mrs. Hudson relaxed. “Oh dear, it did startle me though!”

“I’m very sorry,” John said ruefully. He reached down to place a hand on the dog’s back, as if that would somehow restrain it. The dog flashed him a smile. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Is it a stray?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “It looks…” she seemed to search for a polite description. “Peaky,” she said.

“Ah, yes, well, it does appear to have been abandoned,” John said. “I was just about to…” he stopped. He’d been about to say “have Sherlock take a look” but suddenly it occurred to him how ridiculous that idea actually was.

“Well, if it’s got no home,” Mrs. Hudson said—then finished her thought by turning to the fridge and pulling out a plate of something leftover from a previous night’s meal. “Here, girl,” she said coaxingly, lowering the plate to the floor. The dog sniffed it carefully, then began to gobble—he obviously hadn’t eaten in days.

“Poor girl,” Mrs. Hudson crooned. “Left alone, were you?”

“Boy, actually,” John said—“It’s a male.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Hudson nodded. “Poor boy,” she corrected herself.

Suddenly John remembered his groceries. “I seemed to have made a bit of a mess in the hall,” he said apologetically. “If you could watch the dog a moment…”  
  
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, distracted watching the dog devour its lunch.

John slipped out and managed to scoop the groceries back into the bag. Hurrying upstairs, he thought of how to word his request. “Found a dog,” he pictured himself saying. “So?” came the immediate imagined reply. Of course. Even in his imagination Sherlock always got the better of him.

“What is it?” Sherlock snapped as John stepped into the room.

John jumped and became immediately defensive. Of course his plan had been to ask Sherlock a favor, but that his flatmate was automatically _assuming_ the second John entered the room—and that it was bound to be an unworthy request—set him on edge.

“Nothing,” he said back to the pajama-ed man sprawled on the couch. “Just bringing in the groceries—anything wrong with that?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock said. He rolled over to prop his elbows on the back of the couch, following John as he made his way to the kitchen. “But the manner in which you have been ‘bringing them in’ is rather suggestive of something’s having happened.”

Of course that was true but John found himself demanding “How so?”

Sherlock smirked. “First, there was something at the door holding you back. You had trouble opening it, which is unusual—“

“With an armload of groceries?”  
  
"That typically you are able to balance without trouble. I could hear you struggling with the key.” John noted the window was open to let in the summer breeze. Of course Sherlock would hear what had happened. “Furthermore, you called Mrs. Hudson’s name as you entered, which you would not do unless seeking assistance for something. After which you dropped the groceries, and as you are usually more competent than that”— John had to remind himself that was a compliment—“there must have been something else demanding your attention that caused you to start. In that case it must be fairly pressing. And as you hurried away from Mrs. Hudson after that and up to me it is obviously something she could not resolve for you. Am I not right?”

John finished putting the groceries away and turned to stare at the smug detective. “So you heard me drop the groceries and didn’t bother to come help me?” he demanded.

Sherlock waved a hand. “Obviously it didn’t bother you that much, as you ran into the kitchen rather than cleaning the mess you’d made.”

John couldn’t smother his irritation. “Well, if you know all that, why don’t you tell me what it is I want?”

“I deduce, John, I do not read minds.”

“Well then, _deduce_ what I want.”

Sherlock leaped over the couch and grabbed John’s arm to keep him from running. “There’s the hairs of a small mammal on you shirt sleeve,” he said. “And your pants are dirty at the knees from kneeling. You’ve been playing with someone’s pet, perhaps you met a friend walking their dog and stooped to pet it? No—you don’t have any friends. “He brushed off John’s protest. “Don’t dilute my train of thought! No, that doesn’t explain the kitchen. Aha, you let it in the house, didn’t you?” His look of triumph receded almost immediately, replaced by a furrowed brow, which was replaced almost as quickly by a hard glare.

“You’re not keeping it,” he said sullenly.

John broke free of his grip. “Never said we were,” he shot back. “I just want you to look at it.”

Sherlock scowled. “What for? Does it have a pressing case for me?”  
  
“No, but—“ John searched his mind. If he used the right words, it might intrigue his friend. “It _is_ a mystery,” he said tentatively.

Sherlock snorted. “I don’t save lost pets. You ought to know that by now.”

He always saw through him. “No, I mean, yes, I mean—“ he sighed in frustration. “You had fun just now, didn’t you? Figuring out what I wanted? Why not just stretch the deductive muscles a bit and find out where this dog came from?”

“What will it bring me?” Sherlock turned and flounced across the room. “Dogs are dull.”

“It’s a stray. It’s lost. I just want to find its home.”

“Try the pound.”

“Sherlock,” John said, exasperated, “it’s not going to _hurt_ you.”

Sherlock sighed petulantly. “Perhaps it will be more interesting than you are,” he said.

John leaned forward, surprised. “So you’ll look?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It will be so obvious,” he muttered. “Honestly, what has happened to all the good murderers? I’m too efficient for my own good.”

John didn’t like that mutinous look, and the words he spoke were too similar to those spoken right before a certain criminal mastermind decided to blow up their flat just for fun. “Sherlock,” John warned. “It’s better than shooting the wall.”  
  
“In your opinion,” Sherlock snapped back.

John glanced quickly at the wall but was relieved to see it had no new wounds. “Come on, Sherlock,” he said. “Just do it for me—and then…”

“I’ll be bored again.” Sherlock growled in frustration. “Alright, it’s better than nothing. Where is it?”

John relaxed. “In the kitchen.”


	3. The Deduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock deduces and John takes charge.

It occurred to John that in the time it had taken him to convince Sherlock to take a look at the dog, Mrs. Hudson might have done something with it—begun to comb is messy fur, or even worse, give it a bath. He hurried into the kitchen with Sherlock trailing after him, and sighed with relief when he saw Mrs. Hudson merely giving the dog a belly rub next to the now-empty plate.

“Hello, boys,” she said with a smile. “He’s such a sweet little thing.”

“I thought so too,” John said. He glanced at Sherlock, who was walking in brooding circles around the kitchen, half-staring at the dog and half-glaring at John.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said suddenly; “Shoes!”

“Not wearing any,” Sherlock said.

“Exactly my point. Your feet will be cold.”

“Not likely this time of year.”

“The floor’s cold, though.”

“Excellent, Mrs. Hudson, but I’d already deduced that.”

John was about to intervene, but stopped when he saw Sherlock jump slightly. They both looked at the floor to see the little dog sniffing at Sherlock’s bare feet. John stifled a snicker when he remembered the feeling of that cold nose on his hand.

“What--?” Sherlock stepped away from the dog, but it followed him, tail swinging merrily back and forth. Sherlock backed away again and the dog continued to pursue him. There then ensued a hilarious but all too short little dance, with Sherlock dodging and the dog leaping and lunging, grinning all the way. Sherlock dashed behind John, swung around Mrs. Hudson, and finally leaped onto the counter, perching like a hawk and glaring down at the dog. The dog stopped directly below him, looking up and panting with a look that could only be described as smug.

 _The great Sherlock Holmes, bested by a dog,_ John thought, but didn’t dare saw it out loud. “Here, boy,” he called instead, moving in the grab the dog and pull it gently away. “Leave Sherlock alone.”

Sherlock shot him a glare. “Ah, now you control it?”

“Sorry,” John lied.

“What’s this about, now?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “Sherlock, are you keeping this dog?”

“No!” Sherlock said with force.

The dog sneezed in John’s arms. Mrs. Hudson glanced from it to the detective on her kitchen counter. “What’s going on then?”

“Ask John,” Sherlock snapped. “It was his brilliant idea.”

“Oh, come off it,” John said. “So the dog likes you.”

“Dogs don’t like people, John. They’re automatons created for the enjoyment of their ‘owners’ and they take advantage of our sympathies.”

John rolled his eyes. “So, just tell me where this devious little automaton came from, and I’ll free you of its torturous presence.”

“Will you restrain it this time?” Sherlock growled.

“Yes, of course I will,” John said. “I won’t let it scare you again.”

“I was not frightened. I simply have no desire to let an unfamiliar, mucus-encrusted nose to come into connect with my aforementioned _bare feet.”_

There was absolutely no teasing Sherlock. “Alright. Let’s get this over with,” John muttered.

Mrs. Hudson raised a hand. “Hold on a moment. Cute as it may be, that dog is not going to go on my counters.”

“Sherlock can examine it on the floor,” John suggested.

“I’m not coming down,” Sherlock said.

John shrugged. “Either you come down to it, or it comes up to you...and Mrs. Hudson doesn’t want the dog on her counters.”

“Hold it up to me,” Sherlock commanded.

This was getting ridiculous, but if it allow Sherlock to fulfill his promise, then so be it. Gingerly hefting the dog into a secure position, John held him out to Sherlock. The dog squirmed slightly as it tried to sniff him. Sherlock jerked away.

“He won’t bite,” John said.

“I told you,” Sherlock said. “Mucus.”

He leaned towards the dog, who, this time, merely stared back. At first Sherlock was too careful, simply looking and not trying to get closer. But John saw the moment that the detective in him took over. His gaze hardened, but, strangely, grew misty at the same time. He ran his fingers through the fur at the dog’s neck, ignoring it as he tried to slurp him. He picked up the dog’s paw and separated his toes to look in between them. He checked the dog’s pads and riffled through his fur. He looked like a vet doing a customary check-up. The dog seemed to think so too, as he relaxed in John’s arms and made no more efforts to sniff or lick Sherlock, even when the detective parted the dog’s lips to examine his teeth.

“Pet,” Sherlock said. “Two years old, lives with a well-to-do single woman in her twenties. Apartment dog. Not used to the city, never been here before. Pampered shamelessly. Been lost two days.”

John gaped at him. Sherlock leaped from the counter and started to leave the kitchen.

“Wait,” John said incredulously. “How on earth do you know all that?”

“John,” Sherlock said petulantly. “Surely by now—“

“How?”

“You asked to me figure it out, not to tell you how I did it,” Sherlock snapped. “Use your mentality!”

“Sherlock,” John said. “For all I know you just made that up to get me off your back!”

Sherlock hissed and stormed back to John’s side. He pointed to the fur around the dog’s neck. “Stunted,” he said. “Dog used to wear a collar. It’s still noticeably shorter than the rest of the dog’s fur, so he hasn’t been without it for long.” The dog turned his head to look at Sherlock as he continued. “The fur on his back and sides is dirty and matted, but only on the surface. Below is a clean, smooth coat, expertly groomed. The dog is usually kept scrupulously neat. Only since his escapade to the city has it been otherwise. The debris gathered is all fresh and has not penetrated far, but there is more than could be got in one day. So, two. Not enough for three. Hints of pink nail polish on his toes. As it is a male dog that hints that his owner is a female. Only a girl in her twenties would do such a thing, as she would be living alone. Teens would be reprimanded by their parents. The nails are also well-trimmed, not simply blunted by walking on the sidewalk. Only slightly ragged from the streets of London. The pads are soft and tender, slightly blistered now, as they are used to walking on carpet or soft grass. So, it is an indoor dog. The only time it ventures out is to the parks, which have grass and sand paths, no asphalt. Owner lives in an apartment, takes a cab to the park.  If she can pay for all this special treatment for her dog she is either foolish, wealthy, or single with no children, most likely a combination of the three. As for its age, anyone can deduce that by an examination of the dog’s teeth. All this is fairly obvious. What it implies is that the dog is either lost or has been abandoned by its bored owner. Finished?”

John simply stared. He’d expected something much more vague, just a general idea of what had happened or where the dog might be from. But this was Sherlock Holmes; he should have expected more.

“So, turn it into the pound,” Sherlock said. “Tell him what I just told you. They’ll deal with it then.”

“Sherlock, you’re fabulous!” Mrs. Hudson cried. “And it wasn’t even a murder!”

“Yes, John, try a bit harder next time,” Sherlock grumbled.

“We’re going too fast,” John objected. “We still don’t _know_ that the dog was abandoned.”

“Why else would it be wandering about?” Sherlock asked.

“Maybe he’s lost,” John said. “With all that pampering you deduced, she—the owner—obviously loves him quite a bit. She wouldn’t dump him then.”

“She got tired of him,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand.

“Look, Sherlock, I know it seems weird to you, but some people actually like the companionship their ‘automatons’ can give them.”

“Then she wouldn’t have let him escape, would she? Besides, there are no LOST DOG ads circulating the city.”

John looked quickly at Mrs. Hudson. “Aren’t there?”

Mrs. Hudson glanced nervously between John and Sherlock. “I…didn’t see any, no.”

“Not yet, anyway,” John said.

Sherlock smirked. “Please, John. If she truly did _enjoy_ it, why wouldn’t she advertise for it?”

“Maybe she hasn’t gotten around to it. Maybe she has and we just haven’t seen any. You said he lived in an apartment in town. Maybe she put them up over there, not over here.”

“Please, John!” Sherlock gave a groan. “Stop trying to be clever and send that thing to the pound.”

John glared at him. “No, I won’t. I’m putting an ad in the paper—Dog Found. I want the dog to get back to his home!”

“That’s what the pound is for!”

“We found the dog first,” John argued. “It’s customary for the person who finds it to advertise after it.”

“That dog,” Sherlock said slowly and firmly, “is not staying here.”

“Right. Only until we find his owner.”

“Not at all!”

“Mrs. Hudson,” John said, ignoring Sherlock, “you wouldn’t happen to have a ‘No Dogs’ policy, would you?”

Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Not that I know of,” she said.

“John,” Sherlock warned.

John stroked the dog’s head, and the dog squirmed in pleasure. “In that case,” he said, “we’ll need room and board for one more at 221 B—“

“John!” Sherlock snapped.

John turned to him and smiled. “Thank you for your deductions,” he said. “The sooner we find the dog’s owner, the sooner the dog leaves.”

And he walked out, still carrying the dog, to take it for a quick trot.

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Hudson. “That sounded rather like a threat, didn’t it?”

Sherlock tossed his head imperiously. “I don’t care what it was,” he said. “But John’s not getting any more help from me.”


	4. The Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers the dog's name. Sherlock is even less amused.

“Abe?”

“Albert…”

“Atticus.”

Back on the couch, Sherlock tried his best to block out the voices of John and Mrs. Hudson coming from the kitchen in his flat.

“Barney.”

“Bruno.”

“Buster!”

“Buster? Hey, Buster?”

“No, I don’t think that’s it.”

“Oh dear, he did look so interested when I said it!”

“Don’t sound so excited when you say it. He’s responding to your tone.”

“Oh, alright. Cassie?”

“Cal.”

 _Enough!_ Sherlock thought.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John called. “Help us out.”

“I have no desire to join you in your asinine activities,” Sherlock retorted.

“You wanted the dog to be clean,” John said. “So, we’re giving it a bath.”

The dog made some irritating noise, and Sherlock could hear water slosh onto the floor.

“Do you have to be quite so _noisy_?” Sherlock rolled onto his stomach and thrust his chin onto the pillow.

“We’re trying to figure out what his name is,” John called back. “We’re going through the alphabet.”

“I deduced as much. Dogs don’t need names, John.”

“We have to call him something.”

“Call it dog. That’s what it is.”

“Haven’t got to the D’s yet.”

“Dog isn’t a very nice name,” Mrs. Hudson added. “It’s so impersonal.”

 _As it is a dog, and not a person, it does stand to reason,_ Sherlock thought, but decided not to waste his breath.

Lestrade had texted him earlier about a case, but Sherlock had texted back: Boring. He didn’t know which was worse, though, being bored on a case with the incompetent Lestrade or being bored in the flat with…John and this dog thing.

He still could not understand why they had to keep it.

“Donny.”

“Dovey.”

“Edgar.”

“How is this even going to work?” Sherlock hollered at them. “It’s a dog. It hasn’t any idea what you’re saying!”

“When he hears his name, he’ll react,” John said. “All dogs do.”

There was a tremendous _splash_ and John and Mrs. Hudson burst into laughter. The dog barked and Sherlock heard its paws scrabbling across the floor. He jerked up to look over the back of the couch. The dog had come into the sitting room. Sopping.

“John!” Sherlock shouted.

A very wet John stumbled over…laughing. Sherlock simply could not understand. If _Sherlock_ had been the one to get John sopping, John would have bitten his head off.

“Come ‘ere, you!” John said, and to Sherlock’s surprise the dog hurried over to John, tail whipping back and forth, sending soapy water particles flying. John hefted the dog into his arms as Mrs. Hudson came out of the kitchen holding a towel. She too was dripping wet but laughing.

“Oh, what a silly boy,” she said as she began to towel the animal down.

 _Oh what a nuisance!_  Sherlock thought.

**

John sat on his chair with the now-dry dog resting on his feet. John closed his eyes, liking the feeling of the warm mass covering his slippers, the feeling of his stomach rising and falling as he slept soundly. The poor thing must have been exhausted. He’d been obviously hungry, too, but John was apprehensive about feeding him too much too soon. It wasn’t healthy. And he could only imagine Sherlock’s reaction if the dog were to vomit on the floor.

“Kitchen’s cleaned up,” Mrs. Hudson said, walking over to sit on the couch next to a still-sulking Sherlock.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John said. “I’d’ve helped had he not fallen asleep on me.”

Mrs. Hudson waved the comment away. “The poor dear’s simply drained. It must be so hard for him, being away from home. Especially when his owner sounds like such a nice girl.”

Sherlock snorted. “It can’t miss its home,” he said. “Home is wherever there’s food. It probably doesn’t even remember its old owner.”

John rolled his eyes. He didn’t even bother to argue with Sherlock. He would never understand the affection dogs could feel for their humans, unless he felt it for himself, which was about as impossible as…he didn’t even know what.

Mrs. Hudson smiled as she watched the dog curl himself more tightly around John’s ankles. “He’s taken a liking to you, John,” she said.

John smiled back, a bit shyly, and looked down at the dog. “Yes, well, he does seem to trust me well enough.”

“Dogs just know good people when they see them,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“Rubbish,” Sherlock said. “Dogs know food when they see it. That’s all that matters to them.”

“Oh, really?” John said.

“Obviously,” Sherlock snipped. “You fed it, so of course it wants to keep you nearby. It knows where food comes from.”

“I should think there’s a bit more to it than that.”

“Nothing whatsoever.”

Despite his irritation John had to grin. There were some things Sherlock just refuse to understand. He decided to change the subject.

“I’ll be working on that ad as soon as he gets off me,” he said. “Let’s hope his owner reads the _Times._ ”

“Everyone reads the _Times_ ,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“Not Sherlock. He makes me read it for him.” John laughed.

“Newspapers are a waste of time when they hold only useless information,” Sherlock said.

“So I sort out the useless, is that it?”

“Yes, John, and how good you are at it.”

John frowned, not liking what that implied.

“So did you find its name yet?” Sherlock asked with a sarcastic smirk.

“He fell asleep on the R’s, didn’t he?” Mrs. Hudson said, looking at John.

John nodded. “He’s not a Robin, a Rover or a Rupert.”

“Perhaps he’ll be a Sam, or a Toby,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“What happens when you run out of names and he doesn’t respond to any of them?” Sherlock asked.

“Then we’ll assume we’ve skipped the right one by mistake,” John said, refusing to let Sherlock get to him. “It’ll be great help if we can put that on the ad: ‘Answers to Sam’, or ‘Answers to Toby.’”

The dog jerked in his sleep. John stared at him in surprise, then looked at Mrs. Hudson.

“Was it…?” he asked.

“Toby,” Mrs. Hudson said. “You said—Toby.”

John looked back at the dog. Mrs. Hudson let out a muffled squeak of anticipation as John leaned toward him and said softly, “Toby?”

The dog raised its head sleepily and blinked at him. John said the name again. The dog’s tail thumped against the floor.

“Toby!” Mrs. Hudson cried in excitement.

The dog leaped up and frisked over to her. She leaned forward to stroke his face. “Oh, dear, it’s a Toby! Oh, wonderful!”

“Toby,” John called again, in a careful monotone, just to see—and still the dog turned to him, eyes bright and alert. “We’ve found it,” he said triumphantly. “We’ve found his name.” He risked a glance at Sherlock.

“Marvelous,” Sherlock said. “A T name. Well. What on earth’s wrong with Abe?”


	5. The Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock may have a case. Lestrade may have a bloody nose.

“Have you written the ad yet?”

John finished putting on his left shoe and started on his right. “Yes, Sherlock,” he said. “Just about to send it off.”

The dog named Toby watched John expectantly as he finished with his shoes and straightened up. He wagged his tail, a little tentatively it seemed to John, as if asking, _Are you taking me along?_

Sherlock appeared from the kitchen, reverently clutching a jar of…something John didn’t want to think about. “What are you doing?” he asked, eyeing John as he tied a string around the dog’s neck.

“Taking Toby out,” he said.

“You send you were going to send out the ad.”

“It’s on my laptop. I’ll send it to the paper when I get back.”

“The sooner you send it, the sooner that dog goes home,” Sherlock said, almost threateningly.

John finished his knot and stood with the string in his hand. He turned to Sherlock. “And if I happen to meet Toby’s owner in the street,” he said, “I won’t have to send it at all.”

Sherlock snorted. “You expect to recognize her off the miniscule details I scavenged?”

The details he’d scavenged were far from miniscule, but John decided to ignore that point. “Toby will know his owner when he sees her,” he said.

“You’ll trust a _dog_ to tell you you’ve found what you’re looking for?”  Sherlock said “dog” the way he usually said “Lestrade.”

“He’ll know her when he sees her,” John repeated, irritated. “You said yourself he’s been her pet for two years. He ought to know what she looks like—and smells like.”

“Fine, then, bet your life on a dog. And good luck with it.” Sherlock returned to his coffee table littered with implements of scientific destruction.

As John started out the door (Toby frisking happily beside him) he heard Sherlock’s mobile give a chirp. He froze, as that meant only one of two things: A text from Mycroft (never good) or one from Lestrade (which would either be immediately dismissed or else be a bad sign as well).

And taking the sound of Sherlock’s whoop, he was guessing: Lestrade. Bad news.

“What is it?” he asked with trepidation.

“Ha!” Sherlock said. “At last, something worth my time.” He swept past John to yank his coat off the rack—despite the fact that it was summer and he wouldn’t need it. “Lestrade has a case for us,” he said.

At John’s knee Toby pricked his ears.

“What sort?” John said.

“Blackmail.”

“What’s so special about that?”

“No proof.”

“Then how--?”

“That’s why he called me.” Sherlock ran down the stairs. “Come on!”

“Alright, settle down,” John said. He watched Toby carefully as he waddled eagerly (but painstakingly) down the stairs. “We’re coming.”

Already halfway out the door, Sherlock froze. “We?”

“Well, I thought I’d take Toby along.”

“What for?” the detective’s voice was scathing.

“He needs a walk.” Toby missed a step and took a brief tumble, but John caught him. “Might come in handy?”

Sherlock turned to watch him as he laboriously helped the mutt down the stairs. “Handy,” he repeated.

John looked from him to the dog, flustered. “You never know!”

He could see Sherlock was too impatient to argue. “Fine! But I’ll have nothing to do with it. It’s your responsibility!”

“Alright,” John said. He sighed with relief as Toby landed safely on the ground floor. “Mrs. Hudson,” he called into the kitchen, “we may be late coming home.”

“What is it this time?” she called back amidst noises of rattling pots.

He saw Sherlock swaying impatiently in the doorway and tried to be brief. “Blackmail,” he said.

“Oh?” Mrs. Hudson sounded confused. “What’s so special about that?”

“PROOF!” Sherlock bellowed at her. “John, let’s GO!”

“Coming!” John and Toby hurried after him as he swept out the door and down the street.

The little dog bounded happily along as if enjoying the excitement. Sherlock hailed a cab and plunged inside. John followed him, and Toby—proving Sherlock’s deductions about riding cabs to the park—leaped in beside him. John was forced to smash into Sherlock lest he be crushed by the dog’s energetic weight.

“Elegant,” Sherlock said.

“Sorry,” John mumbled, sliding back into place. Toby put his paws up on the window and watched the scenery go by. His tail swished against John’s shoulder.

Sherlock sat staring at the back of the cabbie’s head but John could tell he couldn’t see it at all, but was picturing something else entirely.

“Details?” John prompted.

Sherlock blinked. “What?”

“Are you going to tell me what the case is?”

“I already did.”  
  
“That’s not much to go on.”

“It’s enough for me.”

And that was that.

**

John was compelled to sit on a bench a few blocks away from the office of the Yard as Sherlock went over the details of the case with Lestrade. He’d taken Toby in but the poor dog had gone crazy, yelping and dashing about. John had cursed himself as he’d hurried back outside. That was no place for a dog; too many unfamiliar smells, sounds, and sights, people everywhere—it was too much for a dog, especially one so used to the solitude of an apartment and the tranquility of the park.

Toby had finished exploring the much-less-overwhelming bench and surrounding sidewalk and had settled down on his haunches next to John’s feet, watching the hustle and bustle of people going up and down the walk and in and out of the Yard. Occasionally his ears would prick and he’d stiffen, as if hearing a familiar sound. At these points John watched him closely, but so far Toby hadn’t attempted to approach any of the multitudes of twenty-something women.

Sherlock walked out of the building and over to John. His footsteps were brisk and sharp and he wore a furious scowl. John pretended not to notice his mood. “So?” he asked.

“Lestrade’s a bloody idiot,” he snapped.

John couldn’t help the fact that he felt a bit relieved.

“What happened?” he asked.

“The answer was right under his bloody nose!”

John sincerely hoped that in this context “bloody” was an exclamation and not an accurate descriptive word.

Sherlock started down the sidewalk, looking for a cab to hail. John rose from the bench, Toby following him. “Yes—the answer was so obvious it wasn’t even worth my coming. I solved it right there at his desk.” John and Toby caught up to him as he spotted a cab and waved. “It was so obvious! The housekeeper had access to everything. She had the key, didn’t she? And of course the jar of Post-It Notes were simply one of those details the Yard has the audacity to label ‘irrelevant’!” Toby started to wander to the left. John tugged him gently back.  “My entire morning has been wasted on a dog and an idiot.”

“Got you out of the house, didn’t it?” John had to tug Toby again; the dog was sniffing the air madly and straining against the string. “Had you excited for a while there.”

“Yes—lead me to the palace but don’t let me in. I have better things to do than solve Lestrade’s petty little problems!” The cab started to pull over beside them.

 _Like what? You’re just going to be bored again,_ John thought.

“I need a case!” Sherlock moaned.

Toby let out a bark. Suddenly it hit John: Toby recognized something and was trying to go to it. He’d been so busy listening to Sherlock he’d forgotten why he’d taken Toby along in the first place. The dog strained against the lead and John stumbled as he started to follow him down the sidewalk.

Sherlock had already opened the cab door. He stared after John, perplexed. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, Sherlock—it’s Toby, he’s pulling on me!”

“So pull him back!”

“I can’t—well, it’s, I think he’s found something!”

“John, where are you going? Come back!”

But Toby was pulling too hard, dashing away down the walk, and John was forced to follow him.


	6. The Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toby knows things, Molly helps out, John puzzles, and Sherlock speculates.

John stumbled after Toby as the dog bolted through the crowded sidewalk.  “Sorry!” he gasped as he bashed into a young man and his wife. “’Scuse us!” he cried as Toby yanked him between two women chatting under a shop eve. “Pardon, ‘scuse us, sorry!” he called to everyone in ear shot as Toby pulled him along.

He looked ahead as often as he cold, trying to read Toby’s body language, and trying to see who it was they were following. It seemed that Toby’s owner should have noticed them by now—what with the disturbance they were making—or at least heard Toby’s incessant barking and turned to see her dog hurtling toward her. But John couldn’t see anyone who seemed to recognize Toby. He couldn’t even tell who they were chasing.

And the more he looked at Toby, the more the dog seemed not excited, but—determined. Like he was performing a service or going on a mission. Not the ecstatic, wriggling ball of “I found you, I found you! Take me home!” that John had been scrutinizing him for all day. What was going on?

The crowd thinned as Toby pulled him towards a bus stop at the corner of the street. He thought he caught a glimpse of someone turning their head to look back at Toby. Toby pulled the leash furiously and John crashed right into somebody. The string slipped from his fingers and he sprawled on the ground with his unfortunate victim.

“Oh!” he heard a voice say and recognized it immediately as Molly Hooper. “Oh, dear! Are you alright?”

“Yes—yes!” John wheezed, rising to his hands and knees. Molly was staring at him, also on hands and knees, as they both tried to catch their breath. “Sorry about that—“

“No, it was entirely my fault! I should have been watching where I was going!”

“No, no, it was me,” John said, standing and looking frantically around for Toby. “Sorry but—“

“Are you alright? I’m just so embarrassed!”

“No need.” John helped her up, still looking past her for Tony. “Listen, did you see a--?”

“Your pants are ripped,” Molly said.

John looked at her. “So’s your sleeve. Sorry.”

“No, it’s my fault,” she insisted. John tried to end the conversation with a nod and sheepish grin. He had to find Toby! But Molly wouldn’t let him go.

“I just feel terrible, especially because it’s you. I mean, not like it would have been better if it were someone else—but I know you. Well, but bumping into a stranger is just as bad, I mean, but your Sherlock’s friend and—not like he even matters right now, it’s just—“

“Molly!” John said. She froze and stared at him. “I had a dog with me.”

“Oh!” she cried. “Where is it?”

“That’s what I’m trying—“

“Which way did it go?”

“I don’t know. I think --” he glanced around “—right.”

“Then, let’s go find it!”

John and Molly pushed their way through the crowd toward the corner. A bus was just pulling out from the curb and going down the street. As they reached the bus stop John could see Toby sitting by the bench, watching the bus disappear. He hurried over to the dog and knelt beside him.

“You alright, Toby?”

He asked, searching him for signs of distress. Toby glanced at him briefly before looking back in the direction the bus had gone. He seemed fine; no visible scrapes. John picked up the string and sat, exhausted, on the bench.

Molly stood awkwardly to the side. “Is…that your dog?” she asked tentatively.

“Wha—no, he’s not my dog,” John said. “He’s—I’m trying to figure out whose he is.”

“Oh,” Molly said. She looked confused but, of course, too polite to say anything. John took a breath and explained to her what had happened so far that day. She stared at Toby a moment, then knelt beside him to let him sniff her. He did so, listlessly, and allowed her to stroke his head.

“Who was her running after?” she asked.

“Don’t know,” John said. “Must’ve got away though.”

“On the bus,” Molly reasoned. “That’s why he stopped here.”

John hadn’t thought of that—hadn’t had time to think, really—but it did make sense. If only anything else would!

“Could it have been his owner?” Molly asked.

“Maybe. I don’t know. He seemed—desperate, but not quite…I don’t know. I just have a feeling it might not have been. She would have _noticed_ him, you know? With all the noise he was making.”

“Right,” Molly said. “But if Sherlock’s right and—“ she blushed and ducked her head, as if ashamed to have said “if” when talking about Sherlock’s accuracy—“and his owner does live alone, who else would he recognize?”

“Maybe a friend,” John said. “Someone who would visit? Or someone he knows from the park?”

Molly shrugged helplessly. John leaned back on the bench and sighed.

“It’s such a shame that he’d get lost,” Molly said. “Have you put in an ad yet?”

John shook his head. Toby lay down with a moan, still staring—it almost looked like he was _glaring_ —after the bus.

“I know someone who works at a shelter,” Molly said. “An animal shelter. She might be able to help.”

“Huh?” John said. He appreciated Molly’s desire to help, but he wasn’t sure what that had to do with it.

Again Molly looked abashed, as if she’d just said something stupid. “Well, it’s just that, since he’s a mutt, he’s obviously not from a breeder. So maybe he’s a rescue dog. It’s just a hunch, really, but they do keep records there of the dogs they adopt out, and they might be able to find—and that’s assuming he even came from there—“

“Oh!” John said, sitting up straighter. “Yes, Molly, that’s a really good idea.”

She smiled, shyly pleased. “Well, but it might not work though.”

“It’s certainly worth a try,” John said. He wondered why that had never occurred to him. “Thank you. How soon could you get in touch with your friend?”

“Today or tomorrow. She might not be home.”

John nodded. “Alright, thanks. Tell me what you find out.”

“Okay.” Molly gave Toby one last pat before rising to her feet. “Well—sorry again for bumping into you.”

“No, I’m sorry,” John insisted. And—because they were both sorry, both tired, both irritated and both relieved—they shared a laugh before parting ways. John picked up Toby this time and carried him to the curb, waving for a taxi. When he got inside Toby merely flopped onto the seat and lay there. He didn’t press his nose to the window like he had earlier. He just…lay there.

John’s mobile chirped at him and he pulled it out. There were three new texts from Sherlock. One was from twenty minutes ago. John guessed that was shortly after Toby had pulled him away.

 _I’m not coming after you,_ the first one read. John laughed derisively. Of course not, he thought. He deleted that one.

The second one was _When you come back that dog had better not be with you._

Deleted.

Third one: _Done chasing geese yet? I have a job for you._

John texted back, _On my way._

_**_

John carried Toby up the stairs into the flat and set him on the rug in front of the fireplace. Toby got up and moseyed in a few tight circles before settling down again with a sigh.

“’S alright, boy,” John murmured. “Good Toby.”

“John!” Sherlock suddenly appeared behind him.

John jumped. “Oh—sorry, what is it?”

Sherlock cast a disapproving look at the dog but made no remarks about it. “I need you to do something for me,” he said.

John stood up to face him. “What?” he asked again, irritated. He was tired of having to force things out of his flatmate.

“Watch the eyeballs. I’m going out.”

“What—where? Why?”

“I put them in a solution. If they melt, text me immediately.” He paused. “Text me if they shrivel, too.”

John shuddered. “What for?”

“It’s an experiment.” Sherlock started for the door.

“Can’t you do it yourself? Where are you going?”

“Out.” 

"Sherlock, not twenty minutes ago you were pouting about not having anything to do. Now you're suddenly too busy to watch your own eyeballs?"

Sherlock sighed as if John couldn't possibly understand. "When presented without adequate stimulation, I seek to untangle the riddles of the universe in hopes the details will one day prove useful."

John was not impressed. "So you decide to do some untangling after two days of whining, then, is that it?"

Sherlock ignored him and walked out the door. "Just watch them, will you? I need to find another piece."

 _Piece of what?_ John wondered, but decided he didn't actually want to know.

At least Sherlock had found something to do that didn’t involve shooting things. John sighed and flopped onto the couch. He watched Toby as the dog lay, eyes half-closed and staring listlessly at nothing. Who had he been chasing? If not his owner, then who? And why? What was this little dog’s story?

John stood and walked over to his laptop. It was time to send out the ad.

**

It was much later when Sherlock got back. He threw his coat on the couch. The dog looked at him from the rung by the hearth. His tail thumped against the floor. Sherlock ignored it.

“John?” he said.

The dog got up and waddled over to him.

Sherlock continued to ignore it and walked not the kitchen, looking around. John wasn’t in there. He checked the jar of eyes on the counter. They were shriveled like raisins. No! Sherlock clutched his head. Hadn’t he _specifically ordered_ John to text him if this happened? It was far too late to remedy it now! The experiment was ruined and he had to start over from scratch! With new eyeballs and all!

He stormed into the sitting room. “John?” he shouted. “Where are you?”

John wasn’t there, nor had he been for some time, it seemed. His laptop was closed. The desk was tidy. In fact everything was. So John had left with a purpose in mind. Had been thinking about it. Had a reason. Sherlock growled, irritated. What so be more important as to warrant that much thought and take John away from the important things—like watching the eyeballs?!

The dog made an irritating noise. Hang on, the dog was still here. And after all the fuss John had been making about it, he wouldn’t leave it alone for long. So he’d be on his way back soon, as he’d already been gone for a significant amount of time. Sherlock could berate him then.

Still only partially satisfied, Sherlock perched on the couch and clasped his hands before his face. He would have to wait for John, as usual. Irritating. But necessary.

The dog made another uncalled-for noise. Sherlock glared at it. It was sitting in front of him with its mouth open. Its absurdly long tongue dangled from between its teeth and it was making huffing sounds as it breathed.

“What?” Sherlock snapped as it continued to stare at him. If it responded to John’s commands, maybe it would leave Sherlock alone if he spoke rudely to it.

But it just sat there, gawking at him.

Sherlock tried to tune it out but the huffing was incessant. He turned his stony gaze to meet the dog’s and tried to stare it down. But the dog just lowered its head slightly and stared right back.

What was inside that animal’s head? Sherlock wondered. The brain of the dog was nowhere near as sophisticated as that of a human. And yet humans continued to insist illogically that dogs could “understand” humans. True, they could follow orders, but that was a mechanistic response to tone, inflection, and body language, reinforced by the desire to please the human in order to accomplish only two things: gain food and avoid corporal punishment.

The dog continued to stare at him. Had it been human, Sherlock would have thought it was examining him as intently as he was it.

Its misty brown eyes were vastly inferior to that of a human’s. It could not possibly see as much as Sherlock could if they looked at the same scene. And yet its senses of hearing and smell could outmatch his. Interesting.

What was going on inside that dog’s head? Was it thinking? Could dogs think? Certainly some regions of the brain lit up when activated by the appropriate stimuli, but is that the same as thinking? Was a dog capable of gathering data within its own Mind Palace and drawing logical conclusions by sorting out the unnecessary and categorizing the relevant?

He heard the door open and straightened as John entered with a bag full of groceries. As he had been to the grocery only that morning, Sherlock realized the contents of the must be for Toby. Only dog-related supplies would have been “needed” at this point, as the dog had been received after the shopping had already been done.

“How long is he staying then?” Sherlock asked. “Does he need _all_ of that?”

“It’s just some things he’ll need." John kicked his shoes off on the mat under the coat rack. "Only enough to last a few days.”

“A few _days?_ ” Sherlock cried. “You mean this dog will be staying in the flat _over night?_ ”

John stared at him as though confused and set the bag down on the coffee table. Toby the dog was running around his feet. “Well…unless his owner calls, which is unlikely. It’s already past eight and I only sent out the ad an hour or so ago.”

“But he can’t stay, John!”

“He won’t. Just until his owner comes for him.”

“But that could take hours! Days even!”

John rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen with his bag. The dog followed him with its nose in the air. Obviously it could smell the food.  “I sent out the ad,” John said. “If the owner’s around, she’ll find it. And she’ll come here. And she’ll take this _infernal nuisance_ away.”

Sherlock didn’t like the sarcasm in John’s voice. It was as if John was mocking him. And Sherlock did not like being mocked. He walked into the kitchen and pointed to the jar full of is ruined experiment.

“Why did you leave them unattended?” he demanded.

All he got was a derisive laugh. Sherlock glared at the dog, who huffed back at him. It was as if he and John were sharing a laugh, and that laugh was aimed at Sherlock so that he could not join in.

The dog and John were ganging up on Sherlock.

And Sherlock did not like that. At all.

 


	7. The Email

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets some leads. Sherlock gets annoyed.

John finished putting the groceries away and walked over to his desk. He opened his laptop and sat down. Toby was happily chewing on the new chewer that John had bought him—he knew it would irritate Sherlock, and make him think Toby was here to stay, but the dog needed some amusement. What if he was still here and Sherlock got a big case? They could be gone all day, or a few days, and Mrs. Hudson didn’t have the time to do much more than come up three times a day to feed him and take him out to walk.

John checked his email, and was surprised to see that an email from Molly had arrived just a few minutes ago. That girl was much more skillful than anyone gave her credit for. John opened the email.

_John,_

_I rang up my friend and asked her if she could find the adoption records for the last year or two. She’s very much an overachiever_  (She's not the only one, John thought) _and looked them up right then and there, so I have the information I was hoping to get—twenty-some-old women who adopted mutts named Toby (they document the breeds but if it’s not purebred they just say “mutt”, so I couldn’t narrow it down by his appearance—sorry). I’ve copied it down here. I hope it helps._

_If it’s not too much trouble will you let me know how it goes? I would like to know how Toby is getting on._

_Molly H._

_PS I went ahead and omitted the ones I knew were wrong—like purebred Tobies, Tobies that were too young or too old—but let me know if I was too presumptuous with that, and I’ll send them over too. M_

_PPS Isn’t Toby a frightfully common name for a dog?_

John pulled out a pad of paper and jotted down the information Molly had written in the email. There were three possibilities: three women who had bought mutts named Toby during different periods over the last two years. He had the names of the women and the dates they had adopted the dogs, but no other information. All of the names were unfamiliar to him. He chewed the tip of his pencil and glanced over at the dog, happily gnawing his chewer. He looked into the kitchen at where Sherlock sat brooding over the eyeballs.

“Sherlock,” he called over.

Sherlock didn’t reply.

“Sherlock—I need your help.”

Sherlock grunted. John took this as a sign that he was listening.

“I’m looking at possibilities of people who may be Toby’s owner. Would you happen to know any of them?”

“Of course not, John!”

“How can you know?” John demanded. “You haven’t even seen the list yet!”

“But I know that no one I know is on there, as no one I know is a woman who has owned a dog named Toby for the past two years.”

It took John a bit to decipher the ungainly sentence.

“But can’t you help me figure out which one it is?” he asked at last.

Sherlock jumped out of his chair and walked into the sitting room, shooting a glare at John. “I’m not going to play your boring little games,” he snapped, flinging on his coat. “If you want to waste your time doing what the papers are already doing, you will not waste mine in addition.”

“But—“ John started. Sherlock held up his hand to stop him. “I need to remedy your mistake,” Sherlock said. “I haven’t the time to assist you.”

“But Sherlock, I need your help. I help you out often enough; I need your deductive powers to help me solve this!” He was being partially sarcastic, and he knew that would not help him, but he could not hide his irritation at this point.

Sherlock flashed him a smile. “Surely you’ve picked up some of my ‘powers’, as you call them, in our time together,” he said. “Solve it yourself.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“My dear John,” Sherlock said, “you know my methods. Apply them.” He walked out the door.

John sat glaring after him a moment, then slowly turned back to his laptop. Toby had paused in his chewing during the argument and come to his side, looking up at him expectantly. John reached down to scratch his ears, thinking of Sherlock’s words.

_You know my methods—apply them._

Could John, simply by following the process Sherlock had described to him so many times, do what Sherlock did?

 


	8. The Search

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John does some digging.

_Lily Tomson_

_Kelly Taylor_

_Janet Hutchison_

 

What could John make of it?

Toby lay at his feet sighing, as if concentrating just as hard, though John was fairly certain the dog was asleep. John tried to think of how Sherlock would go about doing this.

Of course—he would make John go to their houses and interview them. John shook his head. That was not going to happen. But—perhaps they had blogs or other social media connections. He could look them up.

Feeling like a terrible snoop John turned to his laptop and looked up the ladies. He found a few Janets Hutchison, but only one that seemed to match the age and place requirements Sherlock had deduced. Even so all he could find on her was a news story on an online newspaper about how her house had burned down. She’d since moved to an apartment at the edge of the city…with her dog. John’s hopes rose and he jot this one down. Too bad he didn’t know her number; perhaps he could find her in a directory later.

Lily Tomson was a librarian and had a blog about her live in the country with her “well-read” hounds. It was painfully quaint. And she did not live in an apartment. The blog had with several pictures of her dogs. John checked the captions and found a picture of her Toby—an enormous German shepherd-ish beast.

Well, chuck her off the list. Progress!

Encouraged, he typed in Kelly Taylor’s name.

And found absolutely nothing.

There were Kellies Taylor all over the place— _what a blasted generic name,_ he though—but they were mostly Americans living in California or something, shown with pictures of boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, kids, embarrassing “Hey, I’m single” shots—stories of their multiple cats or _gorgeous_ purebred Retrievers—but nothing, nothing that suggested at all there was a Kelly Taylor that lived in an apartment near London with a little mutt named Toby.

John rubbed his temples after the half-hour-long slog through all those Kellies Taylor. A blasted American name. Why couldn’t he find her? Wouldn’t she stand out among Londoners? Was she American or were her parents? Why was there nothing about her—no news stories, no blogs, no web sites, nothing? Had Molly made a mistake? Or had Sherlock? This just wasn’t fitting with anything. Either Kelly Taylor had nothing to do with Toby, or Sherlock had been wrong with his deductions.

The latter John could not believe. And the former he didn’t _want_ to believe.

It was odd, but perhaps living and working with Sherlock Holmes for so long made him always expect the _least_ likely solution to be the one; somehow he felt that this Kelly Taylor person was the one.

But finding nothing that matched, what could he do about it?

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Toby shifted slightly below him and let out a long, deep sigh. John felt a pang of sadness for the poor little dog. He knew that the ad was circulating out there, but he still doubted that Toby’s owner would see it. If she were so devoted to her dog, why wouldn’t she have posted her own ads for it?

Was something preventing her?

John shook his head and decided to look up Janet Hutchison. He closed his laptop and got up to search for the directory. Finding several Janets Hutchison, he narrowed it down to three by address. He pulled out his phone and made the calls.

The first one was easy—he deleted her by her voicemail. It was in a man’s voice, giving his name as Peter and saying neither he nor Janet were there to pick up the phone. Well, Toby’s owner was not married, so he happily crossed on Janet off his list and looked into the other two.

That’s when things went a little less swimmingly. Neither were around to answer their phones so he had to leave a message to both of them, stuttering like an idiot, trying to let them know he’d found a dog but not knowing how to explain why he’d called _them_ without seeming like a snoop or some kind of weird creeper.

 He hung up and sighed. He felt no further along than he’d been before the calls. He could just hear Sherlock scoffing at him and telling him to let it alone, but he couldn’t. He’d found Toby, he’d found this mystery, and he had to find the answer to it.

This mystery. How did Sherlock do it?

Well, to start, he was organized. John frowned at his messy pile of scribbles scattered over his laptop. He walked back to his desk and sat, careful not to disturb Toby, whose legs were twitching in his sleep. He pulled out a fresh piece of paper and drew a chart with the two names on it. He stared at it a moment, trying to decide how to write it out. _Organized…okay, what else does he do?_ He discards the useless information and gathers the helpful. _Alright…_

Janet Hutchison: Middle-aged single woman; lives in apartment at the edge of the city. Matches description deduced by Sherlock.

Kelly Taylor: ?

Well, that helped a lot! John felt like chucking the paper across the room but didn’t out of respect for Sherlock and his methods. Obviously he just didn’t have enough information; and Sherlock was constantly reprimanding John: “One cannot make an educated deduction when one does not have sufficient details.”

Details, well…details.

Were there little things John had overlooked?

He picked up the directory again and the addresses of the two Janets that he’d circled. The names of the apartments were there. Of course! John re-opened his laptop and searched the name of the second Janet’s apartment.

It had a strict “No Dogs Allowed” policy.

John felt like a hero. Ha! He’d solved that little dilemma. Energized again, he wrote down the other Janet’s address on his chart, along with her phone number. He wondered if he should call that second Janet to tell her to ignore his message. But she probably would anyway, he’d sounded like such a jerk. John brushed the memory away and tried to focus on what he had.

He looked up the other apartment’s web site and found that its policy was more lenient, allowing “well-trained” animals to live in the building. Well, Toby was certainly well-trained. If only that Janet would call! John’s heart beat faster when he thought of her calling and saying that Toby was hers—returning Toby to his home!

 _Calm down, John,_ he told himself. _You still don’t know. It may be neither one of these. Or it still may be that Kelly Taylor._ But he’d narrowed it down—sort of—and was closer than he had been. He thought of showing Sherlock his results. That would make the detective pause. Then, perhaps, he would be intrigued enough to look into this with John.

 John tidied up his desk and decided to make some tea while waiting for Janet Hutchison to call him. _If_ she called him. And if she didn’t, couldn’t he go to her address? Well—maybe not. He didn’t want to seem…weird.

Janet seemed like such a good lead, so why couldn’t he find anything on Kelly Taylor? Anything that made sense, that is.

 _No use brooding about it_ , he told himself. He couldn’t help it, of course—now he knew how Sherlock felt on a case. No wonder he was so moody; no wonder he’d ignore John and snarl at him when he tried to help.

Although John would have felt better if he’d had someone he could talk to about it. Maybe he could call Molly—she had asked him to tell her how Toby was getting on. But no, he’d already bothered her enough for one day.

John shook his head and got up yet again from his desk and headed for the kitchen to make that tea.


	9. The Herring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is restless. Sherlock takes an interest in the case.

John awoke with a jolt in the middle of the night. His subconscious had been at work as he slept (Toby curled up on his feet) and an awful though was pounding in his head.

He sat up slowly, easing his feet out from under the sleeping dog, and sat at the edge of his bed.

The other Janet. The husband on the voicemail. The man Toby had been running after. Something had clicked in his head, a possibility that seemed all too likely.

A woman owns a dog and loves him; she lives alone and he’s all she has.

But then she meets a man and they hit off. Start seeing each other.

The dog does not like the man, and the man does not like the dog.

Forced to choose between the two, the woman abandons the dog. As much as she loves him, she loves her partner more.

John rose to his feet and crept down toward the kitchen, pulling on his night robe. It was three in the morning. He didn’t know if Sherlock had come back yet; he’d fallen asleep without knowing. But he was quiet anyway, just in case. Sherlock was not one to appreciate wake-up calls quite this early.

It made sense, didn’t it? Even if someone loves a dog as much as Toby’s owner seemed to love him, they too often chose the human over the dog. John hoped it was not true. Toby missed his home and would not understand why he could not return. And if he couldn’t go back there, where would he end up? Sherlock would not accept him as a permanent member of the flat, and even John had to admit it would not be a good match. With their constant running about for cases, theirs was not exactly an ideal situation for taking care of a dog. It would be unfair to Toby to leave him alone for such long periods of time.

John would have to return him to the shelter. Having already been there, would Toby be adopted again very soon? Would he be hurt and confused going back there? Would he ever trust a human again?

“You’re up early.”

John looked up in surprise as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Sherlock sat in his pajamas on the couch, stooped over another experiment on the coffee table.

“Found what you needed then?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded. He seemed at peace for the first time in a few days, not growling at everyone because he was _bored._

John sat in his chair by the hearth and watched listlessly as Sherlock carefully dipped a liquid from one beaker into another with an eyedropper. He tried to forget that was probably the eyedropper from their bathroom. He could ask Sherlock tomorrow, casually of course, what exactly he was using it for.

“So, no luck finding the owner?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head sleepily. “Sorry, what?”

“You’ve been…deducing, haven’t you?” Sherlock said, shooting him a smile. “I saw the evidence. A well-organized search, if fruitless.”

“Oh, that,” John said. “Yeah, I suppose it was. Fruitless, I mean.” He stared out the window into the black night.

Sherlock looked at him curiously. “You gave up?”

John looked back at him. “Well…no, not really.”

“You came to a conclusion that you don’t like…is that it?”

“Yes, to be quite frank. I did. And I’m not sure where to go from here.”

Sherlock lifted one of his beakers and twirled it slowly in the moonlight, sending the two contrasting liquids spiraling against each other to the bottom. “Sometimes the answer is so mundane it’s infuriating. But if that’s where the clues lead it’s no use fooling yourself into looking for more.”

It was weird to be talking to Sherlock like this, as if they were two old friends of the same trade rather than flatmates who shared adventures. Sherlock seemed to be giving him advice or some kind of encouragement, coaching him on his case while contemplating his own.

“Yeah…I guess so,” John said quietly.

Sherlock looked at him again as he set down his beaker. John looked tired and unhappy. Sherlock knew John was a restless sleeper, but they didn’t usually talk this much at night; typically they’d just snip at each other about too much noise or light or who was or was not getting enough or too much sleep. Something was bothering him, and it was obviously about the dog. The owner had not yet come for him; John was searching fruitlessly and giving up. He could give up so easily sometimes.

“Can I see what you’ve got?” he asked.

John gave him a curious look.

“Please,” Sherlock added mildly.

“It’s not that, it’s the—oh—never mind, of course,” John said, rising. “Look all you want—it’s rubbish though, nothing like your cases.” John picked up the sheaf of deductions that he’d been so proud of earlier. Now they just seemed like a waste of time and paper. He handed them to his friend. “Here.”

Sherlock took them and scanned through them. John turned on the lamp and sat back down. He watched Sherlock flip back and forth between the pages. Then the detective spoke.

“This Kelly Taylor—is she American?”

“Don’t know. Couldn’t find anyone of that name that matched the description you deduced.”

“That’s what you based it on?”

“Well—what else?”

He could see a faint smile of pleasure on Sherlock’s face. “What else indeed.” He tapped John’s chart. “Where did you get these names?”

“Molly—her friend works at a shelter.”

“Do we know the dog is from a shelter?”

John shook his head. “A guess. Molly said it was likely, since he’s a mutt.”

“An educated guess, John,” Sherlock said as if scolding. “That’s a lot more reliable than a simple conjecture.” He flipped through the pages again. “You narrowed it down fairly easily.”

“Not really,” John said. “I chucked one out that may be the most likely person.”

Sherlock turned to him, hands folded under his chin. “Tell me.”

So John told him his latest theory about Janet and her husband. Sherlock listened with his eyes closed. “That would explain why she didn’t put out ads,” Sherlock murmured. Then he opened his eyes. “But if she bought the dog at a shelter, and is as kind as you seem to think, why would she not have returned her dog to the shelter from which she got him?”

John was about to comment that dogs were not simply like clothing that could be exchanged if they did not fit, but what Sherlock said did make sense, so he kept quiet, frowning thoughtfully. Sherlock smiled to see him back at work on the problem.

“Kelly Taylor,” he said. “Very odd indeed that there’s nothing on her.”

“Oh, plenty—just nothing that works.”  
  
“Details, John! I need details. Explain.”

John was both surprised and pleased that Sherlock was taking this so seriously now. “There were more than a hundred Kelly Taylors,” he explained, “but none were twenty-something women living in apartments near London with adopted mutts named Toby.”

“Could it be you got the dog’s name wrong?” Sherlock asked mildly enough. John turned his head away, thinking. It was a possibility, but he felt fairly certain that Toby was the right name. The dog had been unresponsive to all the other names they’d said, and he couldn’t think of any names that the dog might have mixed up with Toby. But it was possible he was wrong.

“I suppose so,” he said glumly.

“Or perhaps she does not want to be known.”

John nodded; he’d thought of that, too. “But why?”

Sherlock leaned back on the couch and folded his arms behind his head. “Let’s analyze the facts,” he said. “We know that there is a woman in London named Kelly Taylor, and that she adopted _a_ dog named Toby. All of that we _know,_ correct?”

“Yes—unless she’s moved since then?”

“But you didn’t find _any_ Kelly Taylors with Tobies, did you?”

“No.”

“So! That’s a fact. Why, then, can we find nothing about her? Perhaps she does not want to be known. Why? Is she hiding? That name is a very American one. Is she from the States? Has she fled the states to escape from something that haunts her there? Moved to London, to an unassuming apartment, with a dog as her only friend. But what is she running from?” He sat back up and shook his head. “There’s not enough to go on.”

“I know,” John said. “That’s what’s so infuriating.”

“Do we know when this Kelly Taylor adopted her Toby?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” said John. Then: “Wait a moment—yes. Molly said it in the email.” John got up and pulled out his laptop at his desk.

“No details are worth dismissing entirely, John,” Sherlock reproved him. “Perhaps the date is the key to the whole case!”

Despite his irritation and fatigue John chuckled. “And maybe not—Molly excluded any whose dates didn’t fit with your theories.”

Sherlock didn’t answer to that. Molly had surprised two people in the same day.

John pulled up his email and was surprised to see Molly had sent him another one. He opened it first.

_John,_

_Will this help? My friend says that at the shelter the dogs are given their names by the shelter employees (unless they come with names), and no two animals share the same name. The owners don’t usually change the names as the animal already answers to it. Don’t know if that will have anything to do with what you’re looking for. Please let me know how Toby is._

_MH_

“Well, that’s odd,” John muttered.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

“According to Molly no two dogs share the same name when living at this shelter. But according to the dates she sent me earlier, Janet’s Toby and Kelly’s Toby were both in the shelter at the same time.” He sat back and thought. “So…one of them must have been named Toby when the other arrived, and the new one was already named Toby.” He looked at Sherlock, who was staring back. “Does that…mean anything?”

“If you mean to ask if it has any bearing on the case, perhaps it does…and perhaps not.” Sherlock shook his head. “What about the dates?”

John walked back to his chair and sat with the laptop in his lap. “Janet’s Toby was bought in 2012, on July 30th.” He looked at Sherlock. “So, if that’s our Toby, he was only a puppy when she got him, since he’s about two years old now.”

“And?” Sherlock prompted.

John furrowed his brow, confused, but then it came to him. “And…he was the first Toby. The employees named him, because he was probably born in the shelter and not dropped off with that name.”

“So the other Toby was the one that got dropped off, and re-adopted,” Sherlock said. “When?”

John checked the dates, sorry and frustrated he’d looked over them earlier. “He came to the shelter on July 21st of that same year, and was adopted on August 10th by Kelly. So he would have been pretty young, too, when he was dropped off.” John rubbed his temples. “Does that disrupt our reasoning?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Think about it.”

John did. “Right, right,” he muttered. “If he was dropped off he obviously wasn’t born at the shelter.” Still, it was sad that a puppy would be sent there by its owners. “But how does this help us?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and for a very long time was quiet. John tried to think but his mind was tired out, and he honestly could not make a connection between the dates and who Toby’s owner was. All that meant really was either his Toby had been adopted as a puppy or had gone through two owners in his lifetime, but how did that help them find out who his present owner was? Did it even matter who had owned him before—had it any bearing at all on the present? If they found his first owner, would he or she be able to tell them who his other owner was? How? If only Toby could just tell them!

Wait—

“Sherlock, that man Toby was chasing today—maybe it was a previous owner!”

Sherlock jerked his head up to look at John.

“He recognized someone,” John said. “If his current owner lives alone, who else would he know? Family and friends maybe, but if she’s hiding…?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock said. “It’s slim at best, John.”

“I know.” John sighed and rubbed his temples. “But if we can somehow narrow it down…”

“You say you called three Janets. Any replies?”

“No—I would have told you if there were.”

“But you narrowed it down to just one?”

“Two,” John said, remembering his other theory—that Toby had been abandoned. He sighed and closed his laptop. “This is ridiculous. I’m sorry, Sherlock, for distracting you from your work. I should just wait and see.” He got up to put his laptop away. “We’ve nothing to go on anyway,” he muttered. “I should just let things pan out naturally. It’s only been a few days; she’ll start looking for him soon.”

He started for the kitchen. Sherlock watched him grab a glass of milk and head back upstairs.

“John,” he said.

He stopped and turned back, head tilted to listen.

“You weren’t distracting me from my work,” Sherlock said with a smile. “That was a nice little puzzle.”

John just shook his head and went back upstairs.

Sherlock picked up his beaker but it didn’t seem as interesting anymore. He turned off the lamp and lay on the couch, clutching his pillow, and turning John’s puzzled over and over in his mind.

 


	10. The Facts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes himself useful

When Sherlock got his mind set on a problem, he was hard-pressed to let it go. It devoured his mind and let nothing else in, it filled all the nooks and crannies of his consciousness, it swarmed the channels of his brain and swelled so that nothing else could pass.

It was a pretty little problem, that of the dog. Sherlock knew it would be trivial in the end, but for once he could see the case had _relative_ importance: it was important to John.

Sherlock hated to see John so upset, hated to see him give up so easily when the answer was still within his grasp. John had done an excellent job on the deductions so far; Sherlock really had been impressed. He’d gone for it longer and more fastidiously than most people would, but like all normal people had the tendency to give up too soon. True, it had been long and tedious for John; he’d made deductions on paper that took him quarters of hours while Sherlock could make those same deductions in his head after a minute or two of thinking.

But even Sherlock knew when to stop with the information. No matter how keen your mind, one cannot make deductions based on nonexistent facts. And that was exactly what he was facing now. He needed more facts.

He rose from the couch and walked over to John’s desk, where the addresses of the two Janets Hutchison lay scribbled on the paper. Sherlock read them once to memorize them and tucked the information away for safe keeping. He riffled through the rest of the papers to refresh his memory, then opened John’s laptop and checked his email. It was easy to guess what his password was today—Toby, the name Sherlock refused to use, and 2 and 1, respectively the number of years Toby had been alive and the number of days he’d been with John. He read through both of Molly’s emails and noted the information within. Who was that friend of Molly’s? What else could they glean from her? Could no one find out who it was that dropped Kelly’s Toby off at the shelter to begin with? He sent a quick enquiry Molly’s way (using John’s name so she would not be suspicious) and closed the laptop again.

As John had cannily observed, if they could find out which of the Tobies they had in their possession, they could then also discover which of the owners to seek out. An easy way, though, to find to which Toby they had, was to find the women and discover which one was missing a Toby. They had two of the addresses, and they were both within reasonable distance of Baker Street, only an hour’s drive or so. And as it was currently the middle of the night traffic would be calm.

Sherlock put his long coat on over his pajamas and stepped outside and walked down the stairs and past the kitchen and out the door and—made it out without a soul noticing!

He walked down the sidewalk, looking out for a cab. Of course, they were nowhere near as active this time of night as at the same clock-face hour of the day, but Sherlock enjoyed the walk through the dark air, the night penetrated only by the streetlamps and occasional lamp in the window. The air was crisp again, not muggy as during the day. He walked in the direction of the nearest Janet, distracting his mind from jumping to conclusions by composing a violin melody in his head.

Drat, he kept thinking of that dog and its slobbery face. Ah well, perhaps he would write it an ode. It had given him an interesting case after all, and then he could give the music to John and forget all about it.

He was working on the fourth movement, full of grace notes and little trills to indicate the irritation caused by the dog’s incessant and unnecessary huffing noise, when he reached the first apartment building. He examined it from across the street, gauging the number of restless sleepers by the number of lit windows. He looked at the front door. It was locked, of course, since it was after hours, but as this was an apartment full of young, active people—people who were often out late, as he could see through the window into the still-active lobby area—was there no some way he could get in without causing a commotion?

Easy: Pretend to be a relative locked out of some poor sot’s apartment; use the speakers outside to contact a room directly. Drawback: finding one who had a male relative Sherlock’s age who would be out and try to emulate a voice he’d never heard.

No then, not that.

Speak to the receptionist and ask admission? No, she would know who all had apartments here and would reject him, unless he again pretended to be someone’s friend or relative, but he didn’t want to risk having her double-check him.

What if he were to find the speaker leading to Janet’s room and ask about her dog? Would she be out? Asleep? In, and awake? Would she grow suspicious?

Could he perhaps intercept a delivery man brining take-out to one of the restless sleepers? Would one of them arrive any time soon?

Of course by this time he’d only been standing and thinking for a second or two, but it was enough to make him impatient. _Curse society and its conventions_ , he thought; _I’m the world’s only consulting detective! I should be able to go where I please!_

He was saved from breaking into the building out of sheer spite when a cab pulled up and ejected an obviously drunk twenty-five-year-old single man who had spent most of the evening playing pool with some disreputable friends. Sherlock hurried across the street as the man staggered over to the door, pulling out his key card and trying to open the door.

“Had one too many, eh?” Sherlock said, sidling up to the man as he fumbled with the lock. The man stared at him blearily.

“Uh, yeah, gesso,” he said, slurring appallingly. Sherlock hid his disgust behind a fake grin. He saw his chance and took it. This guy wouldn’t remember him tomorrow anyway.

“Here, let me,” he said, taking the card from the man and opening the door for him. He led the guy in, wrapping his arm to keep him from stumbling as thy entered the lobby. Sherlock helped him along and no one gave them a second glance. Sherlock deduced where the man lived, and led him confidently up to the second story, as if her were a friend making sure his friend did not fall down the stairs to his drunken death.

“There you go,” he said, opening the man’s door for him and handing him back the card. “Little lighter on the booze next time, right?”

“Er, right,” the poor idiot said, staring at Sherlock as if trying to figure out how his overprotective brother had made it this fast from Greenwich. “Thanks.”

Sherlock beamed at him and closed the door, then hissed under his breath and rubbed his temples. Thank God John was not an idiot. Sherlock simply could not stand ordinary people sometimes.  

Remembering his task, he set out to look for Janet Hutchison. He scanned the doors along the hall all up and down this floor, and finding nothing, he went upstairs. He grinned cheerily at anyone he passed, so cheerily they were usually quick to leave him alone, which was exactly what he’d intended, of course. He scanned the doors on the third story and still could not find what he was looking for. Evidence of a dog. A doorway well-vacuumed.  Claw marks on the door. Drool on the door knob. Anything! Why could he not find it?

He reached the last story and snarled with frustration. What had he missed? He ran down the infernal stairs and walked through the first-story hallway, which he’d skipped the first time around. His eyes darted back and forth but he could find no evidence of a dog’s having been taken in and out of any of these rooms…

But that was it!

Sherlock retraced his steps, eagerly grasping this new revelation. But this time he didn’t merely pause to glance at the doors to check for visible signs. He listened.

And on the third floor, room 313, he found what he was searching for.

The loud and irritating snores of a dog on the other side of the door. An apartment dog waiting for its owner to return. A dog that did not go to the park at all, but remained in the room as its owner ran errands and partied with disreputable friends.


	11. The Spill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes an effort. John makes progress. Toby makes a mess.

 Janet being covered, Sherlock set off for home. He’d tested his theory on the snoring dog by innocently inquiring about the infernal noise emanating from “Janet’s room” to someone who keyed in to the room a bit down the hall. “That would be Toby,” the person had snapped. “Janet’s had that dog for two years, or didn’t you notice?”

Ah, people were so easy to figure out.

John was wrong about the other Janet. If Molly was right—and Sherlock had no reason to doubt her—there weren’t two Janets Hutchison with dogs named Toby, so obviously the other Janet had not abandoned a dog she didn’t have. Sherlock felt relieved himself, if only because he knew John would be extremely happy to hear that.

Sherlock was very pleased with himself. This was turning into a fun little puzzle, a bit of exercise for an inactive brain. Besides, the complete and utter lack of Kellies Taylor that owned dogs named Toby intrigued him. He trusted Molly’s information, and he trusted his own even more. It was unlikely they were wrong, and he had a delicious feeling that it was this Kelly person that they were looking for. A person who appeared not to exist—excellent! And if they did manage to find Toby’s owner in the process, well, that was good too, he supposed. At least the beast would be out of his flat once and for all.

John would be so surprised when Sherlock told him Kelly Taylor was the one!

***

John woke for the second time that morning, but this time it was seven-ish and not closer to midnight. And this time he did not awaken with a jolt, knocked up by his own thoughts, but gradually, as he became aware of the warm, furry dog lying on his stomach.

Toby’s chest rose comically high as he breathed, and John lay still and watched it for a while. It was a comfortable feeling to wake up to—the mild pressure caused by Toby’s weight, the feeling of his chest moving against the movements of John’s own. It was a bit more difficult to breathe with a dog on top of him, but John didn’t really mind.

Eventually Toby stretched out all his limbs, his body shaking with the effort, and gave a tremendous, loud yawn. John could not hold back his laughter at that. Toby jumped up in excitement and tried to lick his face. John guffawed and tried to push the little dog away, but Toby seemed to think it was a game and tried all the harder to reach his face. He managed to slap his tongue against John’s cheek. John fell out of the bed.

He couldn’t stop laughing as he got to his feet and turned to face Toby, who stood grinning up at him on the bed, tail whipping back and forth so fast it was a blur. John tried to put on a stern face. “Think you got the best of John Watson, do ya?” he grumbled. “Well, let’s see who gets the better of who.”

He tickled Toby behind the ears and the dog flopped onto his back, wriggling with ecstasy. John flopped onto the bed next to him and used both hands to scratch until he found Toby’s favorite place, just below the ribs. Toby’s eyes rolled back, he let out a huff of pleasure, and his back legs kicked. John laughed at the sight. Toby was a mongrel and he looked hilarious.

“Ahem.”

John bolted up from the bed to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, fully dressed with his great coat and all.

“Having fun?” he said, lips twitching slightly.

John was faced with a number of things to say. “What’s it to you?” was the obvious reply—so what if he was having fun with a dog? Another option was “Give a bloke a warning, for Heaven’s sake”—it was not fair for Sherlock to barge in fully dressed with John still in his nightclothes. There were other things, too, less polite sentences that were right at the tip of his tongue. But instead of any of those, he found himself asking, “What are you so pleased about?”

It was true—Sherlock was smirking slightly, and his eyes glittered in that way they always did when he was at the top of his game again.

“Janet is out of the question,” he said. “It’s Kelly Taylor.”

It took John a moment to realize what he meant.

“How do you know that?” he asked cautiously.

Sherlock’s smirk grew. “I have my ways. Janet Hutchison has a Toby currently in her possession. The other Janet is therefore out of the equation a well, leaving only one name on our list, and that name is Kelly Taylor.”

Again John was left unsure what to think. He wanted to know _how_ Sherlock knew Janet Hutchison’s Toby was not the one currently lolling on John’s bed. At the same time he was thrilled at the notion—for if Sherlock had pursued it, he was definitely not wrong. But there was one other thought that trumped all the others: If it truly was Kelly Taylor, how on earth were they going to find her?

“That’s great, Sherlock,” he said finally. “How do you know that?”

“I did a bit of investigating,” Sherlock said dismissively.

John sighed internally but decided to let that pass. Sherlock’s idea of “a bit of investigation” probably meant breaking in to somebody’s place. But unless John heard something about it on the news he decided not to push the point. “That’s great,” he said out loud: “Now we just have to find Kelly Taylor.”

Sherlock pursed his lips before sweeping out of the doorway and leaving John alone again. John quickly closed his door and dressed, tussling with Toby once more as he attempted to make the bed. Scratching Toby’s tummy thoughtfully, John wondered what had provoked Sherlock to look into Janet for him. He’d have to thank him somehow—not directly, of course, as Sherlock would never accept that. He’d think of some way, though.

Toby followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen. Sherlock was on the sofa again, minus his coat, stooped over his laptop. John fixed a breakfast for Toby with the food he’d bought yesterday and searched the cabinets for something for himself.

“Checked your email yet?” Sherlock asked.

John cast him a suspicious glance. “Not yet. Why?”

“Perhaps Molly has something else to say,” Sherlock said in a voice very close to a mumble, which John did not like at all. John hurried over to his laptop and checked his email, relieved when yesterday’s password still worked. At least Sherlock hadn’t been meddling. All the same he would change it again today when the time came.

He had another email from Molly. _That woman will never stop,_ he thought. He opened it.

_John,_

_I found the name of the person who dropped Kelly Taylor’s Toby at the shelter. The name is Kelly Taylor. That seems like a frightful coincidence to me, but whether it’s a different person with the same name, or just the same person, I don’t know.  Sherlock can probably find out. Does this help? Please let me know how Toby is. MH_

This being the third time she asked, John decided to answer, since he wasn’t doing anything else. As he described the funny things Toby had done in the past twenty hours he also thanked Molly for her information, marveling at how much she could find, and how she always seemed to know what he was wondering.

“She’s amazing, really,” he called to Sherlock. “Molly is. She just told me about Kelly’s Toby. How on earth could she know that we’d narrowed it down to her?”

He meant it as a joke, but the fact that Sherlock actually laughed made him whip around to glare at the detective. He seemed to be trying to hide behind his lap top.

“You did it again, didn’t you?” John snapped.

“As it has amounted to your receiving some much-needed information, I see no reason for you to get upset about it,” Sherlock said all too logically.

“It’s not that,” John protested. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Yes, well, who was it who left Kelly Taylor’s Toby at the shelter?”

“Kelly Taylor.”

“Yes, John, Kelly Taylor. I do believe we were talking about her. Who dropped off her dog?”

“Kelly Taylor.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to glare at his flat mate. “John!”

Still miffed at Sherlock’s infringement on his privacy, John did not answer out loud but simply turned the laptop around so Sherlock could read Molly’s email. Sherlock had to lean over to do so but John was not about to help him.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed when he saw what John had meant, but he made no attempt to apologize.

“Intriguing…” was all he said.

John put his laptop back on his desk. Toby waddled out of the kitchen, licking his lips. He looked around and saw Sherlock on the couch. He jumped up beside him.

Sherlock cringed exaggeratedly as the dog, panting and wiggling happily, waddled too close to him. “John,” he snapped, “restrain him.”

John chuckled and stood leisurely. “What’s he doing wrong, that’s what I’d like to know,” he said.

“He’s infringing on my personal space!”

“But we all have to deal with that, don’t we?” John said with a wicked grin. Sherlock glowered at him as he tried to push Toby away with his knee.

“Just get it off me,” he snarked. “I helped to find its owner, but that does not mean I should have to put up with its insolence!”

John chuckled and walked over to pick Toby up. But before he got there Toby had somehow managed to avoid Sherlock’s knee and place one paw on his lap. Sherlock yanked his laptop away with an exaggerated gesture that sent his laptop crashing against the chemistry set on the coffee table.

John swept Toby off the couch and out of harm’s way. Sherlock gaped as his experiment fell in shards and globules on the floor, along with his laptop, which was now covered in…the experiment. Whatever it had been.

“No,” he whispered.


	12. The Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock blows up. Toby makes a discovery.

“Sherlock,” John started warily, taking a step back with Toby still in his arms. The little dog squirmed but John held him tightly, afraid Sherlock, in his rage, might lash out at the dog.

Sherlock leaped over the couch

“I told you to restrain it! I told you to keep it out of my way! Now look at what it’s done!” he bellowed. “That _beast_ —“

“Hold on!” John shot back. “You were the one that threw your laptop. I didn’t exactly see Toby grabbing it in his teeth!”

“That’s not the point! The dog should not have been on the couch!”

“Well, maybe you should have been more careful yourself!”

“I told you to keep that dog away from me,” Sherlock snarled. “That was our deal: you take care of it—it leaves me alone!”

John glared back, but tried not to shout, as Toby flinched whenever one of them raised their voice.

“I don’t remember making that deal,” he said.

“It was an unspoken agreement,” Sherlock snapped. “One I expected us both to accommodate.”

“If it was unspoken, how could I possibly have agreed to it?” John was infuriated by Sherlock’s perpetual ridiculousness.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Sherlock said. “You and that dog have your own little agreement, don’t you?”  
  
“Now you’re just being silly!”

 “No I’m not! You and that dog—“ He spluttered for a moment before turning on his heel to stare at the mess.

 _What about me and the dog?_ John thought. _Are you jealous, Sherlock?_

There was a rap at the door and Mrs. Hudson’s voice called out, “Boys?”

Neither John nor Sherlock answered.

“Boys, I heard something going on up here…are you going to tell me what it is?”

John expected Sherlock to make some snide remark about Toby but the detective remained silent. John called over, “It’s alright, Mrs. Hudson…I made a bit of a mess, but that’s all.”

“Will you need any help with the cleaning? I'm not your housekeeper, you know.”

“No, thank you, I think we’ve got it.”

“Well, alright…but do try to be quiet this time of day, some of the others are sleeping.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. We’ll be more careful.”

“ _We_ ,” Sherlock spat.

John let Toby onto the floor. The little dog glanced between him and Sherlock as John made his way to the kitchen.

“I’ll get some towels,” he said.  “Should I ask Mrs. Hudson for a bucket?”

There was no reply.

“What kind of stuff was in there? Do you need any vinegar or water or something to offset the chemicals?”

Sherlock spoke. His voice was acid. “I don’t…need… _anything._ ”

John slowly walked out of the kitchen and gazed at Sherlock. “Don’t need my help then?” he said.

Sherlock leaned over and lifted his laptop from the wreckage. “No.”

“Fine, then. Clean it up yourself.” Suddenly John wanted to get out of there. He hated that Sherlock could be so changeable. Could one minute be intrigued by the mystery of the dog and the next want to throw it out the window. Could one minute be helping John solve a case and acting like his friend and the next acting like John was nothing more than a nuisance, an irritant, something useless and worthless. Acting like he didn’t need help, didn’t need anything, any _body._

If Sherlock Holmes wanted to be alone, then John Watson was not going to stop him.

He walked into the closet and pulled out his shoes. Sherlock made no reaction to John’s moving around. John tied his laces and stepped back into the living room, ignoring Sherlock just as hard and not even trying to avoid the mess on the floor as he picked up the lead that he’d bought yesterday and called Toby over. The dog walked up to him hesitantly, as if unsure of whether the argument was quite over. John secured the collar around Toby’s neck and clipped on the lead. He grabbed his keys. He started for the door. Sherlock gave no acknowledgement whatsoever.

“Thanks, by the way,” John said abruptly. “For helping me with my case.”

He left with Toby.

Sherlock stood stooped, clutching his laptop and staring at his ruined experiment.

“When you come back,” he said to the air, “that dog had better not be with you.”

***

John walked down the street with Toby. The dog frisked along happily, occasionally glancing back at him as if to ask if he was alright. John was still angry but at the same time he felt he was being petty. Was their argument really enough to get upset over? Was he wrong to walk out on Sherlock just because he’d snapped at him?

But no, John still felt Sherlock was the one who was being unreasonable. Everything had been going just fine until he’d gotten so upset about Toby on the couch. If that experiment was so bloody important, he shouldn’t have left it on the coffee table where it could get knocked down if you simply bumped into it!

As he too often did when thinking deeply, John lost track of his surroundings as they walked, and Toby ended up leading them down Baker Street and across town. How long they had been walking he was not quite sure, but he snapped out of his reverie when Toby began to wiggle with excitement and quicken his pace.

John’s heart thumped in his chest. Toby recognized this part of town! Unfortunately John did not, but he followed Toby down the sidewalk and past a bunch of flats and towards and apartment building. Toby ran up to the glass door and smashed his nose into it, tail whipping back and forth faster than John had ever seen it wag. He began to whine, looking up at the door as if expecting it to open itself. John stared at it, frozen.

He couldn’t believe it.

He’d found it.

He’d found Toby’s home.


	13. The Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toby finds his home. John finds he is less than appreciated.

Toby let out an impatient bark and pawed at the door. John hesitated a moment, but he was driven by curiosity and excitement, so he opened it. Toby darted it, yanking John after him. They entered the carpeted lobby, which was empty and quiet. Toby ran towards a hallway and John stumbled after him. Toby strained against the lead, ears slicked back and head thrust forward as he searched for the place he knew. They thumped up a set of stairs and towards a door.

Toby plastered himself against the door and began to whine.

John’s heart did not stop its pounding as he gazed in ridiculous happiness at the door before him. Toby had found his own home. All he had to do was knock on the door and hope she was there…

He knocked. His hand was shaking.

He waited.

Toby let out a long, sad whimper.

John knocked again.

“Excuse me.”

John whirled around to face a middle-aged woman looking at him.

“Oh—uh—hello,” he said.

“I saw you run through the lobby,” she said back. “I’m the receptionist.” She looked at Toby, then back at him. “That’s not your dog, is it?”

“No—I’m looking for his owner,” John said. “I was walking him down the street and he just had a mad dash for this place…”

“You don’t live here,” she said almost accusingly. “How do you know he does?”

“I told you, he just dashed for it. Look at him now.”

The woman regarded Toby as he pressed himself against the door, fussing.

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “And he does look familiar.”

John took a breath. “Is this….Kelly Taylor’s apartment?” he asked.

The woman looked at him in surprise. “Why, yes,” she said. Then her brow furrowed. “But if you knew that, why didn’t you know who the dog was?”

John wondered if, for once, he should just blurt out that Sherlock Holmes had everything to do with it. But then again, he really hadn’t.

“It’s a bit of a tale,” he said. “Is Kelly—er—is Ms. Taylor at home?”

“Not that I know.” Suddenly the woman looked worried. “Come to think, I haven’t seen her in a few days.”

“Would you recognize her if you saw her?” John asked.

“Yes, I saw her often enough. She took her dog out almost every day, to the park, I think. But she mostly stayed to herself. I mean, we never spoke, you understand, beyond the general pleasantries.”

Everything was adding up, except where Kelly was now. Perhaps at work? But the receptionist hadn’t seen her for a while…had she gone somewhere on holiday? Without Toby? Had Toby gotten lost on the way? Why would Ms. Taylor not have noticed and tuned around? Had Toby truly been abandoned?

“Is there any way we could—go into her apartment?” John asked.

The woman eyed him critically. “I have the master key,” she said, “but that would be a breach of the lady’s privacy.”

“I know,” John said. “But…” He could not explain it, but he had a bad feeling Kelly was not in the building and had not been for days. Why else would she not have searched for Toby, not have sent out ads, and not seen his in the paper? Sherlock had suggested she might be hiding from something. But what? And why? John felt she needed someone’s help, and returning her dog would be the first step in the right direction.

The woman scrutinized him. “But…you want to barge in anyway,” she finished for him.

John smiled weakly. “In so many words, yes. Listen,” he added quickly as the receptionist crossed her arms, “I have some evidence that she hasn’t been seen in days and…may be hiding. Or even in some kind of trouble.”

“Are you with the police?” she asked him.

“No,” he admitted, “but I am sometimes affiliated with them.”

Suddenly she brightened and snapped her fingers. “You’re John Watson! I know you, you write those blogs about Sherlock Holmes!”

John smiled and nodded, not sure if her should be encouraging her, but not sure what else to do.

“Me and the old man—we read those things the instant you post them. I swear he’s got himself glued to the screen just waiting for the next one to come around!”

“Glad you like them,” John murmured.

“Certainly! We get the biggest kick out of all those absurd things—and to think it’s happening right here in London! That Sherlock is a real genius!”

John was not exactly in the mood to hear someone praise that man, but perhaps in her enthusiasm for their cases, she would let him into the building. “He is, isn’t he?” John said, trying to sound as if he meant it.

Suddenly the receptionist looked serious. “Say, did he send you here? Is that why you’re here, you’re on a case of his?”

John mulled this over as quickly as he could and finally decided to say, “You could say that, yes.”

“Oh, how exciting! Is that what the dog’s for? Stupid me, that’s Kelly’s dog, of course not. Is Kelly gone missing? That would be a mystery, but say, what does Holmes say about it?”

“Errr, not much at the time,” John said, “but if you want my opinion—“

She waved him off. “No, not yours,” she said impatiently, “yours are always wrong.”

John frowned darkly.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said quickly, “It’s just—well, you know, Sherlock’s the one with the real ideas—I mean, he is the smart one after all—“

“And occasionally was wrong,” John said shortly.

“But not as often as you were. I mean, they were all _his_ cases after all.”

John was fed up with that. He could be as just as good as Sherlock; he didn’t have astounding mental capacities, but he was good for _some_ things! “Actually, ma’am,” he said, “Mr. Holmes did not send me here and this case has nothing to do with him. The case is mine and I intend to solve it, so if you could be so kind as to do me a few favors, your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.”

The woman’s gaze turned hard. “Certainly not,” she snapped. “You think I would let you barge into her room for no reason? You don’t even know her. It’s my job to keep these people safe, sir, and how do I know what you might be up to in there?”

John stared at her; he’d said exactly what Sherlock would have said, only much more nicely! Was it just because he was John and not the revered Mr. Holmes?

“Now, if you please,” the receptionist said with dignity, “follow me to the door. That dog can come, as well.”

It took some effort to pull Toby away from the door, but the receptionist had no pity and yanked the lead from John’s hand to tug Toby along herself. Toby wailed and fussed and caused quite a commotion, but she dragged him and John to the door and almost shoved them out.

“Might want to run your case by Mr. Holmes next time,” she said to John. “Then maybe I’ll take it seriously.” And she closed the door in his face.


	14. The Break-in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John might be breaking the law a little bit.

John was seething. It was so obvious that Toby belonged there! And that woman had been so close to going along with him! Why was it as soon as she learned Sherlock had nothing to do with it, she didn’t want him to do anything—anything that she would happily have allowed Sherlock to do?? Why was John so inadequate? If he’d said Sherlock had sent him to find information, would she have let him in?

Not fair!

And that she could look at Toby plastered against the door, and hear his plaintive waling, and doubt the authenticity of his story—what kind of woman was she? Poor Toby was now scratching at the lobby door and barking.

Why? Why was he so much less important than Sherlock Holmes?

“That does it,” John said to himself. Hang the law; he was going into Kelly’ apartment. He was going to solve this mystery. And he was going to do it without the help of dear old Mr. Holmes or that bloody receptionist!

John gently pulled Toby away from the door and walked around the building, looking for another way in. The room had been on the second story, so it would need a fire escape. Alright; he’d dealt with those before, or rather, he’d watched Sherlock deal with them.

Toby whimpered as John led him away from the door. “It’s okay, Toby,” John said. “We’re going to find her.”

 John walked around the building and into an alley complete with dumpsters, trash cans and litter. _Why is it always an alley?_ he wondered. _Why can’t it ever be a nice, sunny side of the street?_ Oh well, at least he wouldn’t be seen.

He looked at the tall, three-story-high wall, with its criss-crossing pattern of fire escapes, and tried to remember which door Toby had smashed himself against inside. It had been on the right-hand side of the hallway. Alright—he was on the right-hand side of the building. Which door had it been? The second down. John  craned his neck to look up at the row of windows on the second story. How on earth was he supposed to know where one apartment started and the other finished?

Well, at least he’d found the fire escapes. The ladders were up, as usual, but Sherlock had been able to pull one down once.

 _Right—by jumping up and grabbing it!_ John thought. He didn’t know if he could do that. John had never bought into the suggestion that he was abnormally short, but Sherlock was certainly taller than most people. How could he make that jump when even Sherlock had had some trouble doing so?

Toby fussed again and John tried to shush him. He gazed up at the windows and tried to find some clue as to where Kelly’s apartment began. Then at least he would be messing with the right fire escape. There were six windows spanning the wall on each story. Well, that could divide into three or two sections, or it could even just be one really big apartment. If he could get look into the windows, maybe he could figure it out. But then he’d have to climb three different fire escapes…

Wasn’t there usually only one fire escape per section? Then, most likely Kelly’s apartment would be attached to the second fire escape. It was a start, at least.

But still, _how_ to get up there…

Toby fussed again but this time he was pawing at John’s shoe. John gently pushed him away, then knelt to scratch the little dog’s chin as he spoke to him.

“I’m gonna have to climb up there somehow,” he said, pointing up to the window with his free hand. “But I can’t bring you up there—it would be too dangerous for a dog.”

Toby stared at him with his milky brown eyes and panted, ears pricked as he listened. John doubted he actually knew what John was saying, but at least he was including Toby in the scheme and wasn’t entirely alone.

Now, if he could jump high enough…

John grimaced and looked for something to tie the lead onto. He had to make sure Toby didn’t run away if John made a sudden loud noise, or if Toby simply got bored waiting. Hi eyes fell on a garbage can standing against the wall of the building. He looked back up at the fire escape…

 “Toby, I can’t believe I’m actually doing this…”

Five minutes later John was perched on top of the trash can, trying to get up the gall to actually stand. Toby was watching him from where he lay the ground. John had tied the lead to the handle on one of the dumpsters. Well, he’d not tied it so much as just wrapped in around a few times. Should anything happen to him during this adventure, Toby would at least have the means to escape—if he pulled hard enough.

 _You can do it,_ John coached himself. _Just straighten your legs._ He’d been through more harrowing situations and lived. Of course those incidents had always more or less been Sherlock’s fault. Were he to fall and break his skull on the pavement now, he would have no one to blame but himself.

John slowly raised himself into a standing position, trying his best to ignore the wobbling of the can as he rose. When he reached his full height he spread out his arms for balance and stood a moment to gather his bearings. Toby raised his head, ears pricked, eyes fixed on John.

“Ta-da,” John said with a tight grin.

The trash can tipped and nearly pitched him over. Toby leaped up and barked but John caught himself and managed not to fall. He took a steadying breath, made sure Toby had calmed down (well, he was pacing and whining, but at least he wasn’t yelping), and looked up at the fire escape. It was within his reach now—all he had to do was grab it.

John slowly raised his arm, carefully shifting his weight to compensate, and grabbed onto the cold, metal bottom rung. He grabbed onto it with his other hand as well and slowly pulled down the ladder. Toby let out a low growl but John kept pulling until it touched the ground, then he carefully put one foot on—and started climbing.

Toby barked at him as he reached the platform. John turned back to look down at him, flinching as the ladder clanged back into place. Toby barked again.

“Hush,” John whisper-called down. “It’s alright, Toby. You have to be quiet!”

Toby closed his mouth but his lips were still curled, and a deep guttural whine escaped him as John turned back to the window.

He could see inside a bedroom, and there was no one there. The bed was unmade and there were things all over the floor—clothes, bags full of books, toiletries, paper, and such. The window was even left open a bit. Everything looked as if the occupant had left in a rush with every intention of coming back soon. Did he have the right room?

John looked to his left at the other fire escapes. Too far away to jump to, and it was too much trouble to climb down this one and get to the others. He was fairly certain it was this apartment that Toby had been whining at. He just had to take a chance.

Carefully he pulled the window open further and poked his head into the room. It was very small and he could see a living area through the doorway, and it, too, was small and untidy. He saw a desk littered with books and papers, and there were more books and papers on the floor. He thought he could even see some dirty dishes lying around. John tilted his head and listened for telltale signs of life—rustlings of paper, footsteps, a clink of a coffee cup, the tapping of fingers on a keyboard. He held his breath and waited, but two minutes passed without the slightest noise.

“There’s no one home,” he called down to Toby. “I’m going in. Wait here for me.”

What on earth was he talking to the dog for? He’d be lucky if nobody heard him, and it was probably only upsetting Toby more. Maybe he was just spouting out all the things he’d wished Sherlock had said to him in similar situations. Pretending that for once he was the great detective and Toby was the loyal, hapless sidekick. Only John would not neglect to tell Toby where they were going or what the bloody dickens they were doing.

John pulled himself further in, only realize he was now hanging over a bedside table and abut to fall on it face-first. He tried to thrust out his hands to stop himself, but only succeeded in knocking over a reading lamp and sending all the books that had been piled on the table to the floor. Along with himself, unfortunately, causing quite a racket and jolting his spine as he hit the table and then tumbled over it.

He sat dazed for a moment before realizing that Toby was barking at him again. He rose a bit unsteadily and leaned over the table and out the window, exactly the opposite as he had been a moment ago—inside looking out.

“Toby, please,” John called down as quietly as he could. “I’m fine!”

Toby hushed up.

John pulled himself back in and rubbed his face. What was he doing?  Right, searching for clues. He looked around and tried to find something that confirmed whose apartment he was in.

He saw a mobile phone lying on the floor at his feet, amidst the books he’d knocked over.

He picked it up. It was halfway open. He pushed a bottom and the screen lit up with four little boxes and a blinking cursor in the first one. It was locked with a security code.

Trying to keep images of a certain leering dominatrix out of his head, John looked around once more and started walking out of the bedroom.

The papers lying around on the floor were covered in writing. John picked one up and saw it was a letter. The letter began _Dear Taylor._

John felt a chill go down his spine. He was in the right apartment.

He looked at the letter again. It seemed to be written by a family member and was talking about some kind of “bad choice” the receiver had made. The writer was very vague but very angrily written and signed, _Mother._

John was a bit taken aback. If it was from the woman’s mother, why would she have called her by her last name? Was she _that_ angry? And what did she mean by “bad choice”?

John sifted through some more of the paper on the floor and found an envelope. It was addressed to Taylor Kelly, and the address was somewhere in America.

_Is Kelly Taylor American?_

Were Taylor Kelly and Kelly Taylor the same person? That would explain why he couldn’t find anything about Kelly Taylor! If her mother called her Taylor, that must be her real first name. Kelly Taylor was a pseudonym—a really bad one, John thought—and that was why there were no Kelly Taylors in London with dogs named Toby that matched Sherlock’s description. There was no such person. Her name was Taylor Kelly.

 But _why?_

And what was she doing here? And why would she leave Toby at a shelter only to adopt him all over again?

_"Perhaps she does not want to be known. Why? Is she hiding? That name is a very American one. Is she from the States? Has she fled the states to escape from something that haunts her there? Moved to London, to an unassuming apartment, with a dog as her only friend. But what is she running from?”_

Why did Sherlock’s voice suddenly start running through his head? It was the last thing he needed. But much as John hated to admit it, he had a point.

If Taylor Kelly was running from something, was that the “bad choice” the mother spoke of in the letter? She did write about it in present tense—“It _would be_ a bad choice _to_ go through with your foolish ideas.”

John read the letter more closely. The mother was very religious, it seemed, and old-fashioned, continually bringing up the Lord and Taylor’s duty to her husband. And that she would write her daughter a letter rather than sending her an email suggested she was set in her ways--

Wait—her _husband?_ Sherlock said she was single!

John took a quick glance around the apartment. Were there two people living here? He stepped into the living area and looked around. The apartment was cramped; it was not designed to house two.

Was her husband dead? No, that didn’t seem right. Why would her mother blame her for that?    

Had she left her husband behind? Was that what she was running from?

John looked around for more letters. Maybe there would be more clues in them. Most of the papers seemed to be work-related. Looking closer, he saw many were newspaper articles in draft form, and they seemed to be in the process of editing. Was that Taylor Kelly’s job? Something she could do at home, without leaving much, and under an assumed name. John sifted some more and, sure enough, found a cover letter for an application signed _Kelly Taylor._

He was getting closer, but some things still did not make sense. If she worked for a paper, why on earth wouldn’t it occur to her to put an ad out for her lost dog? And why would she have not seen John’s? Unless she never read the paper and only edited articles. But still…

Had she abandoned Toby after all?

Suddenly John’s hand darted to his pocket and he pulled out Taylor Kelly’s phone. He noticed his hand shaking a bit as he flipped the phone open. The four empty spaces stared him in the face.

John’s thumb brushed the keypad, and then he quickly typed in four letters.

T

O

B

Y

The screen blinked and flashed and a picture appeared; the phone’s home page. It was a picture of the very dog that now sat below the fire escape. Head cocked, tongue lolling, ears pricked and eyes soft with adoration.

Taylor Kelly had not abandoned her dog. Something else was going on. But what?


	15. The Texts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John may have gotten himself into a bit of a pickle.

A window popped up on the screen of Taylor Kelly’s phone: 1 unread message. Driven by the need to know what was going on, John opened it.

It was from someone named Chris, dated three days ago, and it was this:

:(

John stared at that, brow furrowed in confusion. He pulled up Taylor’s inbox and saw a text message she had received a few minutes before that:

:)

What the deuce? What did that mean? It wasn’t a reply to anything she’d sent _him._ Why would someone just send you a smiley for no reason? Unless there was a reason, but then it would just be a signal, something predetermined by both the sender and receiver at a previous date. If that were the case, Taylor had to know what it meant. She obviously knew that person—he was on her contact list. It couldn’t be a wrong number. But what the devil did it mean?

The date being three days ago—the same day Sherlock surmised Toby had become lost. Did the smiley have something to do with that?

And who was Chris anyway? Her husband? John flipped through the contacts on the phone. There were only a few there. _Mother_ and _Father_ were there, along with _Mother Kelly_ and _Father Kelly._ (Probably her husband’s parents.) There was also someone named Lexy. And there was Chris. So, unless she’d deleted her husband from her contacts, that was most likely him. Was the smiley some kind of husband-wife signal, like “Don’t forget a jacket, it’s cold out” or “I’ll leave the lights on, go ahead and eat without me”? A reminder? Just a silly “I love you”? But then—why was one of them frowning? Was that “I miss you”? Was her husband texting her from America as she stayed, alone, in London? But why was she here alone anyway? Had she lost her job back home? Why come all the way to the UK? Why not just look around in the states? Did she have family here?

Family—her parents? No; according to the post mark on the letter, they lived in America. And not Chris, as they’d probably be living together. Maybe it was this Lexy person she had on her contacts. Who was that, then? A friend? A sister? A cousin?

John went back to Taylor’s inbox and flipped through the text messages.  Before the smilies there was another message dated about a week ago, from Lexy: _Please come. We need to talk. This isn’t good for you._ Taylor had replied _Can’t._

Please come…did that mean Lexy was from around here? Did she live nearby, that Taylor could just go to her place whenever she needed to? Perhaps that was why Taylor had come here; but that still wasn’t explaining much. What “bad choice” had Taylor made that “wasn’t good for her”? What was she running from, or hiding from?

John picked up the letter from Taylor’s mother again and read through it more carefully, searching for anything he might have missed before. Whatever she had done, her mother had not approved of it. Why this continual reference to Taylor’s husband—and always as “your husband” and never by name? It was almost as if she considered Taylor a thing and not a person, something to be controlled, that had a distinct purpose to fulfill. And that purpose was--? To stay with her husband and simply be his wife? What was Taylor doing that would contradict that? Did she want her own job? A quick look at the resume attached to the job application he’d found earlier showed him that Taylor had already had her own job when the mother wrote that letter. So no, it wasn’t a job she wanted. A divorce maybe?

John thought about that. That seemed to fit with the other facts he’d gleaned. It was a religious family, so perhaps they did not believe in divorce. If Taylor didn’t like her husband, though, would her parents still insist they stay together? Did that mean Taylor wanted a divorce for a more petty reason? Was that the “bad choice” she’d made?

But why had she left America then? If she was simply defiant, she would have no trouble bringing the case to court. A more timid type would be inclined to flee. That led John to believe that it was the husband who was causing the trouble for her. Perhaps she was estranged from her parents to begin with, and they didn’t believe that she was being mistreated? _Was_ she being mistreated? Was that the only answer?

It was so frustrating; John felt as though he’d hit upon the answer, and yet it still did not seem right. He was still missing too many clues. He felt like tearing out his hair; if _Sherlock_ had been the one to break into Kelly’s flat, he’d have figured the whole thing out in an instant.

He got up and began searching the apartment for more clues. He gathered a few letters together, most of them from Taylor’s mother, continually trying to convince her to “not go through” with whatever it was. And after reading through them John found what he was looking for: the mother made specific reference to Taylor’s “separation” from her husband.

A divorce it was, then. John was grimly proud of himself for figuring it out. But Sherlock could still have done better.

Another letters confirmed the existence of a sister, Lexy, an author living in London. She and Taylor were close, it seemed almost conspiratorial, if he believed the mother’s obviously exaggerated wording.

There was one from her father. It was terse and brief and said, in so many words, that he did not believe “things” were “as bad as she seemed to think they were”. John looked for more information in the scattered papers, but the rest were all newspaper articles in various stages of editing and cutouts of Help Wanted ads. Taylor had apparently sought out a job in London, and so was intending on staying for a while. Under an assumed name? For how long was she planning?

And how…how did Toby factor in to all this? Why had she dumped him only to re-adopt him—both under her fake identity? How had he come to be lost? Had she actually abandoned him?

Well, he could find out! He walked into the kitchen, a room as small and untidy as all the rest: more dirty dishes and more scattered books. These books, as they had been in the author rooms, were a mixture of editorial guidebooks, cheap paperback novels, and cookbooks. John checked the cupboard and found it mostly empty (though the fridge was full of frozen meals).

There were, however, plenty of cans of dog food in the cupboard. And there was a dog dish on the floor labeled with Toby’s name. That woman did love her dog.

John went back into the bedroom, still carrying Taylor’s phone, and tried to gather his thoughts. He knew a lot more now than he had upon entry, but how did it help him, really? All he knew was that Taylor was in some kind of trouble for wanting to divorce her husband and was in hiding from her disapproving parents (and possibly her husband as well). But that didn’t explain why she hadn’t been seen for approximately the same number of days as Toby had been lost, or why Toby had become lost in the first place. Whatever had happened had happened unexpectedly, as Taylor had apparently intended to come back soon—leaving her phone behind, leaving the window open. And she had taken Toby with her, as John was hard-pressed to believe that Toby could have escaped the place, even with the window open. He would never have made it down the fire escape. And he would have had no reason to leave, being loved and pampered as he was. Had he gotten lost at a trip to the dog park? What had happened to Taylor in the meantime? Had she actually been out of her apartment for a full three days? If so, where on earth was she? At her sister’s? With no regard as to what had happened to Toby?

John was yanked away from his train of thought by a knocking at the door. At first he sighed in exasperation, but then the significance of his situation hit him.

Someone was knocking on the door. He was in a total stranger’s apartment. And someone was knocking at the door.

Now would be a good time to think about leaving, he decided. Much as he wanted to see who it was at the door (it may be a crucial clue to the mystery!)  it would be beyond absurd for him to go answer it. He hurried back to the window and looked down for Toby.

The little dog was gone.

John’s stomach did a backflip: _Toby was gone._ Frantically he scanned the alley for a sign of him, but he could see everything, and Toby was not hiding behind any of the dumpsters. He must have pulled the lead free of the dumpster handle! No wonder it had been so quiet the past few minutes! Stupid, STUPID: he should have checked on him earlier!

Just as John was about to scramble out and start a frantic search for the twice-lost dog, he heard a voice outside the door in addition to the knocking: “Open up! Police! Open up!”

 _Cripes!!_ Had that bloody receptionist called the police?? John quickened his descent and tried to land on the fire escape as quietly as possible and made for the ladder. It was far too loud for his liking as he screeched downward, but there was not helping that. He made his way to the other side of the alley, the one not facing the front of the apartment complex, and turned the corner—

And bumped right into Lestrade.  

He yelled, against his better judgment, but all his pent-up tension had to get out somehow. Lestrade held up his hands to stop him and John tried to smile and make light of it. “Oh, you, uh, startled me.”

“Right,” Lestrade said, obviously unconvinced. John noticed he was in plainclothes and apparently off-duty. “I was just driving by, myself,” he continued, “when I saw you climbing out of that window over there.” He pointed. John pretended to look. He tried to think of a sane reason he might be climbing out of a total stranger’s window.

“Oh” was the only thing he came up with.

“Tell me it has nothing to do with the police car parked in front,” Lestrade said.

John looked to the sidewalk but there was no help coming from down there.

“Tell me you had a good reason for doing it,” Lestrade said.

“Freeze!” a different police officer shouted, as if John were a hardened criminal running down a dark alley (though he may as well have been, what with the emotions he was suffering through.). John turned to see one of the other coppers approaching him with narrowed eyes.

“You were seen climbing out of that window,” he said. “You’ll have to be searched.”

“Right,” John said numbly, feeling like his body currently belonged to somebody else and he was just watching as he spread out his arms and let the police man frisk him. He was beyond cursing himself and was resigned to just bear the humiliation and face what he deserved for making that stupid, idiotic choice to climb into somebody else’s apartment. Just to prove he was right.

The police man reached into John’s pocket. John flinched and closed his eyes as he withdrew Taylor’s mobile phone.

“Is this your phone?” the police officer asked.

It was no use lying about it now. “No,” said John.

He didn’t even need to look to see how shocked Lestrade was; it was clear enough in his gasp and the sound of his hand slapping against his forehead.

 _Breaking into an apartment and stealing._ John was placed under arrest, but the humiliation was nothing compared with the look of mixed sadness, anger, disappointment and exasperation on Lestrade’s face as the detective took custody of him, waving the other copper away promising to deal with John himself.

“Oh, John,” Lestrade said wearily, “hasn’t this gone a bit far?”


	16. The Trail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is taken in. Toby leads Sherlock on a chase. Lestrade is only trying to help.

“Just tell me it was Sherlock’s idea,” Lestrade said on the way to the Yard. “Tell me Sherlock made you do it, and maybe we can dismiss the whole thing.”

John said nothing. As humiliating as it was to get arrested for something he had never dreamed he would do, he was not going to pretend that the case was Sherlock’s. It was his case. He was going to solve it.

Lestrade sighed after the long silence on John’s end had become one road sign too long. “If it wasn’t Sherlock’s idea,” he said, “I can’t imagine what would provoke you to do that.”

“I was working on a case,” John said.

“For Sherlock,” Lestrade said too quickly.

“For myself,” John snapped.

“Perfect,” Lestrade muttered. “Just what we need. Another one. John,” he burst out, “has Sherlock’s idiocy finally rubbed off on you? You are NOT above the law!”

“Lestrade,” John said miserably, “There’s something really strange going on, and the woman in that apartment lost her dog.”

Lestrade shot him a skeptical glance that caused him to almost miss his turn, but he caught himself and slowed just in time to make it. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean that I found a lost dog, and have reason to believe something is preventing the owner from looking for it.”

“It might have been abandoned.”

“It wasn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“She obviously cared for him. He was pampered. She still had cans of food in her cupboard.”

“You broke into her place just to prove she still had dog food?”

“I did it to prove that something strange is going on with her.” John sighed and rubbed his hand on his face. “And now Toby is lost again.”

***

_Toby had thought it was growing too quiet up there. His John had not spoken to him in several minutes and Toby had grown worried. If something had happened to John, like something had happened to his Taylor, Toby needed to alert someone to the calamity. And there was only one person he knew who would help him save his John._

_Toby had not gotten lost again. He’d pulled free of the dumpster and made off for Baker Street._

_***_

Sherlock stood in the window of his flat, looking out at the terrible world, and playing his violin for all he was worth, which is to say, he was causing an unholy racket when Mrs. Hudson came in with Toby.

“Sherlock,” she said sternly, “I know that you’re forgetful, but it’s just plain wrong to leave a dog outside by itself in the city.”

Sherlock turned to look at her; she held Toby in her arms and Toby was staring at Sherlock.

“I didn’t leave him out,” Sherlock said.

Mrs. Hudson sighed and set Toby on the floor. “Apparently you did, though, because he was scratching at the door begging to come in.”

As soon as Toby’s paws hit the ground he made a beeline for Sherlock and stood staring up at him, head tilted, then turned and walked back to the door, still looking at Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson looked surprised. “You were just out, Toby dear,” she said. “Why do you want to go back?”

Sherlock’s mind had been working during this time. He had not let the dog out. John had. John had taken it for a walk. John would not let the dog go free. He liked it too much. And yet the dog had somehow been set loose and returned to the flat. Which meant it had somehow been separated from John. But John would have chased after the dog if he could, which meant that somehow John had been unable. And John, being John, was not one to let trifles distract him from his priorities. Which meant that something fairly significant had happened to John during that walk. And now, Lord have mercy, the _dog_ was trying to tell him he wanted back outside. Which meant (illogical as it was) that the dog was trying to tell him where John was, as Sherlock doubted he did indeed want another walk.

“Quite alright, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, “I don’t mind at all taking him back out.”

***

Dogs were known for their keen sense of smell, hound dogs for their tracking ability. Toby had more than a little hound in him and John, wonderful John, had left them a good trail to follow.

It was ingenious really, Sherlock thought as he hurried to keep after the dog whose nose was plastered to the pavement. He only wished he had thought of it himself. Creosote, an extremely potent chemical, had been one of the elements in Sherlock’s failed experiments on the coffee table. After the dog maliciously spilled it all on the floor, John must have stepped in some as he walked through the flat on his way to the door. And that little bit stuck to the bottom of his shoe left a trail for Toby to follow through the streets. Sherlock could not have been happier, what with the thrill of the chase and all, if he wasn’t so worried that something had happened to John.

Had it been at all horrible Sherlock liked to believe that he would have heard about it by now. So it may very well have been a minor incident, such as meeting an old not-friend at the grocery and feeling compelled to engage in meaningless conversation. The lead may have slipped from his hands and the dog had foolishly wandered off while John was not looking, and now John was searching frantically for it.

But why would Toby feel the need to lead Sherlock to John?

Sherlock pursed his lips as Toby led him swiftly round another corner. John hadn’t been so angry as to do something reckless, had he? Was he truly angry with Sherlock? What exactly had Sherlock said that might make him so angry?

_“It was an unspoken agreement. One I expected us both to accommodate.”_

_“If it was unspoken, how could I possibly have agreed to it?”_

_“Of course you wouldn’t. You and that dog have your own little agreement, don’t you?”_  
              
Curse his infallible memory! Of course that’s what he’d said. Trifling as it was, it had succeeded in upsetting John. The question now was, exactly how upset had John been? Upset enough to do something he would regret later? Or something Sherlock would regret later?

They were coming upon and apartment complex. Sherlock looked at Toby as the dog made his way along the sidewalk. Was this Toby’s own apartment?

The dog hovered for a moment in front of the door, but then yanked Sherlock around the corner and into the alley, nose pressed to the pavement as he followed where the scent led. He stopped, staring at the fire escape. Sherlock followed his gaze.

Open window.

Trash can just below the escape ladder.

Toby looked to Sherlock and let out a high-pitched noise from the back of its throat, the kind commonly associated with emotional distress (had the dog been human, which of course it wasn’t).

Had John…?

No, not John. He was too…well…too…he just wouldn’t. Not unless Sherlock told him to.

Or unless Sherlock made him very angry by insinuating something unpleasant about him and the dog he was attempting to find the home for, in which case John might grow impatient, reckless and foolhardy, assuming he could take on the case by himself and solve it by breaking into someone else’s apartment, a thing he would under normal circumstances consider “not good”.

And as there now appeared to be a policeman leaning out of the window, Sherlock guessed John was no longer in there.

Which either meant he had been arrested or had managed to escape undetected.

But he had obviously not escaped, otherwise he would have found Toby himself and been back at Baker Street by now.

Which left only one option.

“Oh _John!_ ”

***

“This is out of my line,” Lestrade emphasized as he took John into his office. “But you’ve had a clean record up until now, and as you have assisted us on previous occasions, I might be able to let you off with a warning.”

John mutely took a seat in front of Lestrade’s desk as the detective pulled out some paperwork. John knew this would probably cost Lestrade an arm and a leg, and he was feeling wretched at the moment, so he blurted out, “Just forget it.”

Lestrade stopped and looked at him. “What?”

“Forget it,” John repeated. “I don’t want to get you in trouble. You’ve already bent the rules for us too many times, and you’re right, what I did was completely ridiculous. And yeah, my record is clean, but that seems to me all the more reason to teach me a lesson.”

Lestrade looked from him to the paperwork and said, “But…”

John waved his hands impatiently. “Look, I just want this to get over, alright? I don’t want you to step out of your line; I don’t want you to break the rules just because you’re my friend. I just want…” he trailed off.

“To get arrested?” Lestrade said dryly.

“Well, no, I guess, not that specifically, but to get what’s coming to me.”

Lestrade just continued to gaze at him. John looked into his lap where his hands now lay folded and still. _I broke the law,_ he thought. _That shouldn’t be excusable just because it’s me…_

There was a sudden bang coming from outside. The two men jumped and whirled around as they heard footsteps clambering down the hall, along with a dog’s barking. A very familiar bark.

John stiffened. _Toby?_

Lestrade hurried to the door in time to be bowled over by none other than Sherlock Holmes. Toby was beside him, looking wildly around and barking in frenzy. John leaped to his feet crying, “Toby, Toby!” and the dog rushed over to him, yanking Sherlock to the floor along with the hapless Lestrade.

John hugged the dog warmly and tried to soothe him, calm his rapidly pounding heart. Toby leaned into him, panting and snuffling John’s face.

“John!” Sherlock shouted.

John looked at him. He was still on the floor with Lestrade, but rose and bounded over to John in a remarkably short time.

“What happened?” he demanded, kneeling as he tried to look past Toby into John’s face. “Did he arrest you? Will I have to pay bail?”

John was not sure whether he was angry or tickled. Sherlock—mighty Sherlock!—had, apparently, been worried about him. And was now willing to bail him out. But he was still part of the reason John was even here. And John was still angry for his disregard of Toby.

But…

Here he was with Toby. The two appeared to be working together—to find John.

How had the even known where he was? Had Toby run all the way back to Baker Street when he escaped? Had he and Sherlock set off to find John? How had they done it? How had they known he was here?

“Well,” said a very annoyed Lestrade as he rose from the floor. Dramatically he brushed himself off, but it was all lost on Sherlock. “Found a worthwhile case, then, have you? ‘The Search for the Missing Flat mate’? Or perhaps you just felt like knocking me over?”

“Do shut up, Lestrade,” Sherlock snapped back. “I just want to know why John is here.”

“And I want to know how you knew I was here,” John said.

“You first,” Sherlock said.

“No, you.”

“Please!” Lestrade waved his hands. “Why do I always feel like I’m dealing with children when you two are around?”

John stood up, Toby in his arms, and looked Sherlock full-on. “I was arrested for breaking into a building,” he said.

Sherlock, still kneeling, looked up at him in confusion. “Why—was there a murder going on?”

“No.” John didn’t feel like giving him all the details. “It concerns Toby. And I’m currently under arrest.”

Sherlock rose and looked to Lestrade expectantly. “Well?”

Lestrade glanced at John. “I was trying to get him out of it,” he explained, “but John didn’t want me to.”

Sherlock shot a swift glance in John’s direction. John stared back, not giving him anything to go on. Sherlock’s glance flitted to the desk, back to John, to Toby, and finally back to Lestrade. Finally he said, “It appears I must do everything myself.”

He pulled out a check book and barked at Lestrade, “A pen?”

Lestrade flinched from the force of Sherlock’s voice, then went to his desk for a pen and gave it to him. Sherlock licked the tip and tapped the book with the other end. “How much?”

“What for?” Lestrade asked.

“The bail,” said Sherlock.

“No,” John said. “You’re not bailing me out.”

Sherlock looked as close to hurt as could be imagined for him. “Why not?”

“Because I’m a criminal, and I deserve to go to jail for it.”

“You’re not a criminal, John, it was an isolated incident. And we all know you must have had your reasons, even if you refuse to disclose them. Both Lestrade and I have the assurance that you will not do it again, and Lestrade here is kind enough to have offered you a way out. As am I, right now. You see, you actually have no choice in the matter.” He flashed him a smile and again pressed Lestrade, “How much?”

Lestrade looked to John. John was feeling very strange at the moment. He shoved Toby into Lestrade’s arms and said shakily “Here—hold him a moment. I have to find the rest room.”

“Down the hall, to the left,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade stared after John as he left and looked pleadingly to Sherlock. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Sherlock shrugged. “John is as unpredictable as you consider me to be—most human beings are.” He licked his pen again. “Lestrade? The bail, if you please.”


	17. The Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a talk.

Sherlock stood outside the building, leaning against the wall, the lead in his hand with Toby on the end of it. He was watching the dog watch the passers-by, watching as his expressions changed depending on the tone of voice and body language of the person he viewed. If the person’s voice was raised and they were gesticulating wildly, Toby would flatten his ears and his eyes would grow narrow. If the person was walking close to a companion and laughing, he would prick his ears and lean forward as if to try and find out what was so funny. If it was a mother holding the hand of a small child and talking quietly, Toby would cock his head and twitch his nose as if sniffing. And if was just a small child he would squirm in place, tail swishing back and forth on the pavement as he sat.

 _The dog is intrigued by children,_ Sherlock thought. _Perhaps he plays with them when his owner takes him to the park._

He looked up and saw John standing beside him, also regarding the dog.

“Hello,” he said.

“Yeah. Hi,” John said.

_His face is tinged a slight pink, especially around the cheeks and below the eyes. He’s scrubbed them. He is blinking more frequently than usual. He looks tired._

“What were you crying about?” Sherlock asked.

John shot him a glare. “Nothing. I wasn’t crying,” he snapped. “Lestrade just let me off now, so we’re free to go.”

Sherlock didn’t know why John would lie to him. Crying was a perfectly human reaction to some of the more severe emotions (not that _he_ ever cried) and Sherlock simply wanted to know which one of them John had been experiencing that made him hurry to the toilets. But John was getting defensive about it (read in the way he replied, and how he snatched the lead away from Sherlock and started down the street without looking to see if Sherlock was following). That probably meant that whatever emotion he had been feeling, he for some reason was reluctant to reveal to Sherlock. Not that that narrowed the possibilities down at all.

Sherlock caught up with John and they walked in stride down the sidewalk. John said nothing and Sherlock said nothing. Toby glanced back at them repeatedly. John’s shoulders were hunched slightly and he was obviously ignoring Sherlock’s presence.

_So this is what tension feels like._

Suddenly Sherlock wanted to throttle John. He wondered if this was how others felt when they got that murderous look in their face. Now he understood why they all got so angry during their times. It was a bloody infuriating atmosphere.

“You really would rather have stayed there?” Sherlock asked. “You really would rather have been arrested? Should I not have bailed you out?”

“Well,” John said in a tight, patronizing voice. “I do remember that I asked you not to bail me. But of course, you never listen to me.”

“But then you proceeded to allow me to pay the bail—“

“ _No,_ I proceeded to run out of their like an idiot and into the men’s toilet.”

“Wherein you promptly began to cry—“

“NO! Leave a bloke alone, will you? Bugger off! Take a holiday! Just ONCE!”

John was shouting at him and Toby had stopped head in his tracks to watch them. Sherlock stopped too and stared at John, and John stared back, and he looked very angry. Sherlock just felt incredulous.

“You are being unusually defensive about this,” he said calmly. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to fill in the details of this incident, so I could understand and be better able to ‘bugger off’.”

John passed a hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry I blew up at you. Let’s get back to the flat, alright?”

“I did not ask for an apology, I asked for an explanation. Receiving one does not dispel my desire for the other.”

He looked at John expectantly. John stared at Toby, who was looking back and forth between them.

“Aright, you win, as usual,” John said quietly. “I’ll tell you everything once we get back to the flat.”

Sherlock was exasperated by this delay but thought better of arguing, as that might cause John to clam up entirely.  “Fine.”

John turned back in the direction of Baker Street. Toby looked up at him as he rose to his paws and began to walk again. This time he did not go ahead of them but remained in between them as they waked. Sherlock felt as if he’d become a boundary between him and John, disallowing any exchange of information.  

He thought they should call a cab and make the trip a short, easy one, but John made no move to do so and Sherlock expected that if he were to call one himself, John would make a break for it when Sherlock got in. So he resigned himself to walking the rest of the way. Resigned himself to John not saying anything until they got to the flat. Resigned himself to the dog’s presence between them.

 _Emotions!_ Sherlock thought. _They make people so_ fickle!

***

“Tea?” John asked.

“Don’t stall, John. It isn’t your style,” Sherlock said.

 _Neither is stealing._ Lestrade had confiscated the phone, of course, and promised to look into the case himself. The police who had come to arrest John as an intruder had taken a look at Taylor’s apartment and agreed there was something odd going on there, besides John’s having broken in in the first place.

“We’ll figure out what’s going on,” he’d said. “That’s our job, after all,” he added with a meaningful look.

John was frustrated that he couldn’t continue the case himself, but that was a selfish, vain line of thinking. It was in much better hands now. The most important thing was that the case be solved. John didn’t have what it took anyway. The events of today had proven that.

Toby was in the kitchen eating the lunch John had given him. John stood by the sink, drawing himself a glass of water, taking his time drinking it. Sherlock stood in the doorway watching his every move.

“Do you have to do that?” John asked, irritated.

“I’m waiting for you to speak,” Sherlock said.

John drank slowly and then turned to face Sherlock. “Alright,” he said. “What do you want to know?”  
  
“Everything,” Sherlock said.

“Sorry, I’m not a genius. Can’t go that far.”

“You know what I mean. Alright, you want me to be exact? Tell me this, then: Why you left the flat with the dog, the cause of the tension; why you broke into a stranger’s apartment, and what you did in there; why you let yourself be caught, and why you let the dog run off during this time; why you refused to let Lestrade get you out of being arrested, and why you didn’t all me to tell you what was going on; why you refused my help when I offered it; what you cried about in the toilet, and why you refuse to tell me about it and all of the above mentioned topics—“

The questions came rapidly and without pause or change of tone, and John felt his anger mounting. Sherlock rattled them off so easily, as if the answers would not even matter in the end, and his eyes bore into John’s in that piercing, unwavering way he had, and it was obvious Sherlock expected John to answer to everything.

“Well, John? Is that clear enough for you?”

“Very nice, Sherlock, very nice. But why don’t you just _deduce_ what’s the matter with me? Isn’t that your job after all?”

Sherlock just blinked.

“You’re so good at it,” John grumbled as he pushed past Sherlock and into the sitting room. “Just bloody look at me and there it is. You’re so clever, Sherlock, and the whole world knows it, don’t they? No one can compare to you. And you know it. And I know it.  Oh yeah, I know it, don’t I? And everybody makes sure I do.”

“John…?”

“No one’s as clever as you.” John flopped onto the couch and sat with his arms crossed. “Not even me, your blogger. I just sit by and watch, and record, and do nothing, and no one sees me, a fly on the wall, a stander-by, an incompetent—“

“John,” Sherlock said in a tone that meant “Shut up.” John did. Sherlock sat next to him on the couch and looked at him. John turned his head away.  

“Is that how you feel?” Sherlock asked.

John looked to the floor, suddenly embarrassed by his outburst, and guilty for the insults he’d slung.

“Never mind,” he muttered. “What was the first question again?”

“You feel belittled?”

“I never said that.”

“But I can _deduce_ it.” Sherlock cracked a grin that John caught out of the corner of his eye, and it made him smile, just a bit, and relax.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. You are my friend. And you can be a really good friend. But there are just times when I feel…” He trailed off and cleared his throat. “As if, that maybe you don’t, I mean mostly other people, they don’t—“

“Appreciate your efforts?”

John nodded, ashamed, and stared at the floor.

Sherlock sat back and stared at the wall. “Is that why you pursued the case on your own? To prove yourself to me? And to other people?”

“Yeah,” John muttered. “Stupid, I know.”

“No; it was a logical thought, if a foolish action.” John found that funny and laughed. Encouraged, Sherlock asked the harder question. “But why did you want to stay in jail?”

John stopped laughing. “I deserved it,” he said bluntly.

Sherlock just looked at him and offered no reply. John heard the clicking of Toby’s nails on the floor as he walked out of the kitchen.

“Punishment,” Sherlock said after a long pause.

“Right.”

“Even after you deliberately broke the law to prove yourself.”

“I’d say because of that.”

Toby reached John’s feet and sat looking up at him. John leaned forward to scratch the back of his neck. Toby leaned into him and the silence stretched on.

“And you were crying about it?” Sherlock asked.

John stiffened and gripped Toby’s fur. The dog pulled away and looked at him in confusion.

 “Well?” Sherlock prompted.

“Well,” John said. “Who says I was crying?”

“Your face had the remnants—“

“Alright! So I was.” John leaned back. “People—normal people, Sherlock-you know they have these things called emotions?”

Sherlock flashed him a glare. “I may be a sociopath. But I do happen to know what emotions are.”

“Well, sometimes a person gets so overwhelmed, or fed up, by a bunch of conflicting emotions—“

Sherlock interrupted. “Anger, doubt, anxiety, guilt, annoyance, shame—you see, I am aware.”

“Very good,” John said dryly. “When too many of those get shoved into the same little brain, they’ve got to be released somehow.”

“And that’s why people cry?”

“That’s why people cry.”

Sherlock looked intrigued; John wondered if he’d forgotten their original topic. Toby leaned on John’s legs. Sherlock looked at the dog, then back at John, and he looked puzzled and almost ashamed.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked humbly.

It was the absolute worst thing he could have done, but at that John burst out laughing. He flopped back against the sofa and threw is head back and laughed. Sherlock glowered at him.

“I see nothing funny about my question,” he snipped.

“Oh, Sherlock!” John laughed. “I am sorry. It’s just—of course I’m not mad at you.” He collected himself and then looked upon his friend more seriously. “I was mad at you. In fact I was really very angry with you. But I was also very angry with myself.”

“Because you didn’t control the dog?”

“No! Why does it always go back to that? I was angry at myself because—“ John paused and reflected. “Because I felt I couldn’t do anything. Because I was afraid for Toby, and worried that I couldn’t help him, even with the ad. And I was afraid…” He stopped.

“I see,” Sherlock said. But he looked puzzled again. “My absence caused you to redirect your anger to yourself?”

“No.” Really, it was no use explaining emotions to Sherlock. “I was angry at both of us, because we are both bloody fools.”

Sherlock smiled. “Ah, indeed.”

Toby, feeling left out, attempted to crawl up John’s legs and into his lap. John leaned forward to heft the dog onto the couch; halfway there, he froze and glanced at Sherlock. He wore a stiff frown but made no effort to protest, so John pulled Toby into his lap, and the dog squirmed with pleasure.

“I apologize if I contributed to your inner conflict,” Sherlock said with surprising sincerity. “I didn’t realize that…you felt belittled.”

John cleared his throat, which had suddenly grown thinner somehow. “’S alright.”

“Perhaps it is now, after the apology,” Sherlock said, “but before, I doubt that it was. I never meant to make you feel left out, or make you think I did not appreciate your presence or your contributions to our cases. I suppose the fact that you are always there, and will follow me and do my bidding without question, caused me to take for granted the things that you do for me. The fact that you were always there left no room, in my mind, for the necessity to point out the appreciation I held for your efforts.” He pursed his lips and shifted his gaze away from John. “I neglect to mention how few people I can actually tolerate on a regular basis. Most people are so incredibly daft I can hardly stand their presence. There are very few I could spend as much time with as I do with you. Very few who would not bore me to the point of insanity, who would not irritate me with their constant prattling, endless strings of obvious statements and casual chatter intended to lighten a mood I prefer to lay heavy.”

John soaked this in as he hugged Toby, and he felt happier than he had all day. Of course, this was Sherlock Holmes he was dealing with. The absence of insult was the only praise he could offer. The fact that he had not thrown John out the door long ago was the sign that he appreciated John’s companionship. Sherlock liked him for more than his ability to help with cases in a pinch. He appreciated John’s presence as a human being. But Sherlock Holmes would never say that. John would have to look for the clues. Solve the mystery that was his friend’s strange way of showing affection.

He felt a very, very faint touch on his elbow, but when he turned to look Sherlock had already withdrawn his hand.

“You’re my friend, too, John,” he said with a smile.


	18. The Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good old Mrs. Hudson and her cookies.

“Oh, John!” Mrs. Hudson said, wringing her hands. “Think of what might have happened!”

“I have, don’t worry,” John said. They were downstairs in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, ostensibly to inform her of the day’s adventures, but more accurately to find the source of the buttery, gingery smell that had penetrated their front door.

“That’s one mystery I never tire of solving,” Sherlock had said as he dove upon the plate of freshly baked snaps.

Mrs. Hudson handed John another one and gave him her best motherly frown. “But if you had stayed--! Think of your reputation! What would your neighbors say? Or Harry?”

“Harry would say ‘I knew you had it in you!’” Sherlock said. He ducked behind Mrs. Hudson to avoid John’s half-hearted smack.

“Look, Mrs. Hudson,” John said, “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve already had my ears chewed off by both Lestrade and genius boy here. The truth is I was thinking about my reputation too much, not too little.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Hudson nodded. “Got bit by the glamour bug, have we?”

John shrugged and nibbled his biscuit. On the floor, Toby watched him with huge eyes and let out tiny whining noises. John casually reached own to pet him, but Mrs. Hudson’s sharp eyes caught the chunk of biscuit he held in his hand.

“Enough, John! That dog is getting fat and spoiled, and he isn’t even yours!”

“That’s it, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock said as he reached past her for another ginger snap. Mrs. Hudson waved him away.

“That goes for you, too, young man! You’ve had quiet enough yourself!”

“But I deserve it,” Sherlock said pathetically. “I just ran halfway through London looking for John.”

Mrs. Hudson wagged a finger at him. “Now, now. Excuses! It seems to me Toby is the one that deserves the real credit for finding John.”

“Yeah, Sherlock,” John teased. “I didn’t see you running with your nose to the ground.”

Sherlock cast him a stormy look and went in the corner to pout. “Taking the dog’s side again,” he fussed.

Mrs. Hudson ignored him and knelt to pet the dog. Toby leaned into her eagerly. “He’s a good boy,” she crooned. “If it weren’t for Toby, Sherlock wouldn’t have found John!”

“You forget that if it were not for Toby, John would not have been lost in the first place!” Sherlock returned.

“True!” She shot John a reproachful glance.

“Either way,” John interjected, “You would have seen my arrest in the papers this evening.”

“Ha!” Sherlock shot back. “You disappoint me. We would not have known it was you, for of course you would have gone under an assumed name.”

John rolled his eyes. “Like Lestrade doesn’t know who I am?”

“A triviality.” Sherlock snuck past Mrs. Hudson and grabbed another biscuit. “None of us would have any idea where you were, not even that dog--”

“That’s right!” Mrs. Hudson looked at John, worried. “You could have been in there for days and we just wouldn’t know. We’d have no clue, we’d be frantic--”

“—As if you’d fallen off the face of the earth!” Sherlock said triumphantly.

John suddenly leaned over the table and put his head in his hands. Sherlock froze, unnerved. Usually he was the one that did things like that, not John.

Mrs. Hudson mistook John’s actions for intense remorse, and went over to pat him on the shoulder. “There, there, John dear,” she said kindly. “We would have forgiven you even if—“

“A name,” John said.

“Which name?” Mrs. Hudson asked, startled.

On the floor, Toby crept over to John’s knee and looked up at him expectantly.

John leaped up from the table and rounded on Mrs. Hudson, hands flailing excitedly. “Mrs. Hudson, the paper—do you still have the paper?”

She stared back, almost frightened by his sudden change.

“Which paper?” she asked.

“Of course, right! From three days ago. The evening paper. I gave it back to you, didn’t I? You didn’t toss it, did you?”

“Toss it where?” Sherlock asked unhelpfully.

“I keep the week’s papers in a basket in my sitting room,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Shall I fetch it?”

“Yes, thank you.” John seemed to be bouncing with an unfamiliar energy. Except or Sherlock, it was all too familiar. He smiled at his flat mate.

Toby was circling John, piqued by his excitement. In a moment Mrs. Hudson returned with a basket of newspapers. “You’re lucky it’s not Sunday, as I do throw them out,” she said, but her words were wasted as John dove upon the basket. With a muffled “thank you” he riffled through the papers until he found one, yanking it out and flashing through the pages until he found a small announcement.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered to himself. “At the edge of town…that’s right. A scuffle. On the sidewalk. A man and…a woman, yes! The names…”

Toby howled.

 Sherlock slapped his hands over his ears. “That dog!”

“Toby, please!” Mrs. Hudson scolded. “You’ll wake the neighbors!”

Sherlock picked up a spare newspaper and rolled it up, advancing menacingly on the dog. John leaped between them and snatched the paper from Sherlock’s hands. “Toby’s right, Sherlock,” he said. “I’ve solved it.”

Sherlock froze. “Solved what? The neighbors?”

“No! I know what happened to his owner!” He crushed the rolled-up paper in his hands as he worried it in his excitement.

“Kelly Taylor? You know what happened?” Sherlock asked.

“Her name’s Taylor Kelly. But right now, it’s Tilly Keller.”

Sherlock blinked. “An assumed name,” he said. Then he let out a shout. “John, you’re brilliant!”

John smirked. “I know.”


	19. The Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Taylor. Sherlock meets Chris.

Poor Mrs. Hudson was left bewildered in her own kitchen as the boys rushed out to the street and hailed a cab, John still clutching her newspaper, with Toby leaping after them. He didn’t even need his lead; he followed enthusiastically as he became part of the quest, a member of the team.

The cab pulled up to the curb and they piled in as John directed the cabby. Toby smashed himself onto John. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind that a few times a paw would poke him as the excited dog paced over his flat mate.

“How?” Sherlock asked, fixing a piercing look on John.

“There were letters,” John said. “Her real name’s Taylor Kelly. She’s from America, but fled with Toby when she had a row with her family. I think it’s a divorce. Her family seems very religious, and probably was angry at her for it. So the case couldn’t go to court, I’m guessing, without her family ganging up against her. She has a friend here, a sister maybe, lives nearby. That’s why she came here. But she’s still in hiding, got a job as a newspaper editor under an assumed name—Kelly Taylor. Now she’s been arrested in a street scuffle under the name Tilly Keller.”

Sherlock snorted. “Very original with her pseudonyms, isn’t she.”

John waved it away. “It let me find her. But it all fits, doesn’t it? That’s why Toby got lost. She was walking him to the park, maybe trying to get a cab, when something happens—an attempted mugging, maybe. I don’t know. Toby runs off, and comes to us. And Taylor’s still in jail, but nobody knows who she really is.”

“Why all the secrets?”

“I don’t know. She seems to be really desperate to avoid something.”

“Well, you know those Americans; always trying to ‘find themselves’.”

John shook his head. “I think it’s something else. I think she’s afraid of her family.” As he thought about the letters and messages he’d seen in Taylor’s apartment, he suddenly remembered something. He pulled open the paper (maneuvering around Toby to do so) and saw the name of the other person in the scuffle Taylor had been arrested for.

“Chris,” he said. “Of course. It’s beginning to make sense now.”

“To you, may be,” Sherlock said irritably, which was not really fair, since he held so much information to himself when _he_ was on a case.  

John tried to explain. “When I was in Taylor’s apartment, I saw she’d got a text message on her phone: a smiley, from someone named Chris. And the man who ‘Tilly Keller’ was scuffling with three days ago was also named Chris. I think he was trying to tell her something with the smiley, let her know he was there. And that’s when she hurried out of her place, the very same day. But she ran into him anyway.”

“The husband?” Sherlock asked.

John looked at Toby. The little dog had his face pressed against the cab window. He thought of the man Toby had been chasing. A husband. But wasn’t he arrested in the scuffle? Maybe he managed to bail himself out? Why would he not bail out his wife as well?

“Domestic violence is a major issue in the States,” Sherlock said. “Some studies show an assault or act of physical violence against a woman can occur six to seven times a minute over there.”

John stared at him. The things this guy knew. And for heaven’s sake! Six to seven times every _minute?_ “That’s awful,” he said. Then: “Wait, are you saying this guy beats his wife?”

“It is a statistical possibility, one that fits with the facts you’ve garnered.”

“Yeah.” John felt stunned. No wonder Taylor was so scared. But if that was the case, why wouldn’t her family be angry with the husband? Why blame the wife for her husband’s abuse? Were they so dead-set against the idea of divorce that it didn’t matter why she wanted it? Was she afraid to tell people that her husband abused her?

 _Maybe he left her in jail on purpose,_ John thought. _To punish her…_

“We’re here,” Sherlock said.

It was tricky convincing the warden to let them in. Visiting hour was almost over, and they didn’t have an appointment with the woman they wanted to see. Sherlock pulled a charade that John was sure wouldn’t work.

“You don’t understand,” he cried out through tears that (to John at least) seemed obviously fake. “We only just now found out that our best friend had been arrested. Our best friend in the world. We have to see her. You see, we found her dog.” He motioned tragically to Toby, who was glowering at the warden and letting loose little sounds of menace. “She has no idea her dog is still alive. In fact, she’s seen no one in the days she’s been here. You just have to let us in!”

More out of annoyance than sympathy (and resignation when he realized everything Sherlock was saying about the prisoner was true.

“Alright,” he said roughly. “Stop your sniveling.”

Sherlock cast him a wounded look.

“One of you can go see her. Just one, though, ya hear? And only for the ten minutes you have left, starting now.”

John looked to Sherlock, expecting him to volunteer, but to his surprise Sherlock turned to him with a defeated look.

“You should go,” he said. “You know her better.”

John stiffened n surprise, but kept a straight face as he nodded, slowly, and turned back to the warden. Sherlock was right; John knew Taylor better. He just hoped ten minutes was enough time for him to prove what he needed to and get Taylor out of there.

“No dogs, either,” the warden said.

Sherlock grabbed Toby’s leash and snapped, “Alright already. Go talk to Tilly.”

The warden lead John inside, through the lobby (or whatever you called those areas in a jail house), unlocking doors, down unpleasantly narrow and dimly lit hallways, into the room he’d been in (too often it seemed) before, talking to prisoners with Sherlock. The single chair facing the window, the single chair on the opposite side of the window, the little grate on the window that allowed them to speak without leaping over and killing one another. John knew that the safety of both the visitors and the prisoners was important, but the whole business still made him nervous. Sometimes, he felt grotesque, speaking to a caged person as if he, John, were all-righteous and the prisoner were nothing but scum. Or, when he was facing a particularly aggressive person, sometimes John felt as if _he_ were the prisoner, trapped behind glass with nowhere to go.

The warden conversed briefly with a guard, who slipped out of the room to get “Tilly Keller”. Then he made John sit down in the chair, then went to lean in the corner like the stereotypical jail personnel he was. It was deathly quiet in there, and very white, very dimly lit. Not even a clock to let John know how much time had passed. Only the warden had a watch. John could have checked his phone, but they’d confiscated it upon his entry. Along with his watch.

John wished there was at least an infuriating tick to listen to, but all he heard was the ringing of his own ears.

“What’s Tilly charged for?” he asked finally.

“Causing a disturbance and withholding evidence,” the warden said. “We still don’t know who was the mugger and who was being mugged.”

John tensed. “Is the other party concerned still here?”

The warden shot him a glare. “We have levels of privacy, you understand.”

John swallowed a sarcastic retort. Now was not the time to risk being thrown out.

Finally the door on the other side of the glass opened. The guard returned with a prisoner in a shabby jail uniform. It was a short blond woman with a few freckles. _Lives in the south maybe? Too much sun. The south are typically more evangelical than some other states._

The guard made her sit and she stared at John in surprise—fear, even. John tried to smile reassuringly. Then he said the first thing that came to his head, which, in retrospect, he realized was probably not a good opening.

“Hello, Taylor,” he said quietly.

Taylor’s eyes widened.

***

Sherlock stood outside the jailhouse with Toby’s lead in his hand. Toby paced in restless circles around Sherlock, so the detective had to continually move his feet out of the tightening circle lest he trip. He felt as impatient as Toby seemed. The timer in his head said they had been waiting for five minutes already, and with his past experience in jail visits, he knew that john had probably not even got into the visiting room yet.

The street outside the jailhouse was full of vehicles, of course, but the sidewalk was vacant of people, besides himself. Prisons were typically not located in the hub of town; but still, it made it that much more foreboding: there was not a soul in sight.

Not that Sherlock was susceptible to such abstract impressions. John maybe, but not him.

Toby let out a high-pitched, fussy sound from his throat.

“What?” Sherlock snapped. “There’s nothing we can do.”

He could have sworn the dog glared at him. Sherlock glared back just as fiercely. Toby flattened his ears and glanced away. Sherlock’s snort of triumph, however, was cut short when Toby suddenly craned his neck up and started sniffing intently at the air.

“What’s the matter?” Sherlock asked.

Toby growled, very softly. He turned to look over his shoulder. Sherlock followed his gaze. There was a man down standing a few feet blocks away. He was just standing there, holding something to his lips and staring out at the traffic. At first Sherlock thought he was holding a whistle, but when the man pulled it away from his face and exhaled, Sherlock caught the distinct scent of cigarette smoke.

 _Toby smelled it first,_ Sherlock sulked. _Dogs have a superior sense of smell, I’ll give them that. But why did it catch his attention? There are plenty of smells that would excite his imagination. The exhaust from the cars, the smell of the waste in the dumpsters. Perhaps the dog is familiar with the smell of tobacco? Perhaps his owner smokes. Then why is he growling?_ Then something else occurred to Sherlock: He could identify twelve different brands of cigarette by the smell of their smoke. Perhaps Toby could, too. And if he could, would he attribute the smell of the smoke to the person who smoked it? Was a dog that smart? If so, the smoke was reminding Toby of someone whose presence he was not terribly fond of.

_The husband._

Sherlock put on an indifferent front. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, that the man was looking at him. Sherlock pretended not to notice. The man came closer.  Slowly, casually. Jaunting, almost. As if he had not a care in the world. And yet Sherlock recognized the deliberate stance of someone who wanted something.

He waited until the man was only a few feet away and he could hear his footsteps over the sound of the traffic before turning to him.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly.

The man smiled and let out a puff of smoke. He had light blond hair cut long and tan skin with freckles.  

“Nice dog,” he said with an American accent.

_John was right._

“Thanks,” Sherlock said, acting the part of a dumb pedestrian. “Had him two years now.”

The man gave him a sharp look. “Have you?”

Sherlock glanced at Toby. The dog was staring at the man and growling very low.

_They know each other._

“Name’s Chris,” the man said after another puff. “You?”

“Benny,” Sherlock said.

“What’re you doing around the jailhouse, mate? Got a friend in there?” He sneered over the word _mate_ but smiled as if he were complimenting. Sherlock recalled that this was some kind of American thing, that sarcasm was a compliment.

“Visiting.” Sherlock’s mind worked quickly, trying to decide how to make this person tell him what he needed to know. “Friend of mine. Tilly Keller. My friend’s talking to her right now.”

“Huh.” Chris looked at Toby again. Toby took a step forward. Alarmed, Sherlock pulled him back.

“He won’t bite,” Sherlock explained to the man’s suspicious look. “But he has a tendency to salivate a bit more than necessary.”

Chris smirked right at Sherlock. “Is that so?”

Sherlock did not like the looks of that smirk.

“Are you from around here?” Sherlock asked as Benny.

“Oh, sure,” Chris said, obviously (to Sherlock anyway) lying quit easily. “Around.” Another puff. “You?”

“Yes.” Sherlock pulled Toby back again, as the dog was continually reaching forward to sniff at Chris.

“Good doggy,” Chris said. He squatted down and thrust out his hand at the dog. Toby cringed away and skittered to hide behind Sherlock, pressing against his legs. Sherlock could feel him—trembling.

Chris laughed.

A sudden feeling of anger swamped Sherlock and it was all he could do not to smack the guy right then and there. He held back his hands and his glare and any of the numerous biting remarks that were spinning around in his head.

_He’s hit Toby. Chris has hit Toby._

“Not a dog person, are you?” Sherlock asked.

“Nah.” Chris stood and took a long draw on his cigarette, then smirked at Sherlock again. “See ya round, bloke.”

Sherlock pasted a fake smile on his face as Chris turned and walked back down the street. Then he knelt down to examine the dog. Toby was still shaking and growling and staring after Chris. Sherlock tried to do what he’d seen John do to calm the dog. He ran his hands over the dog’s back and massaged his head. Toby gradually stopped trembling, but the growl would not go away. He leaned into Sherlock and even tried to lick his hand. Sherlock jerked away.

A laugh pierced the sound of the cars rumbling by. Sherlock turned and saw Chris watching him a block down. As soon as Sherlock rose Chris turned back abruptly and staring going quickly down the sidewalk, disappearing around the corner.

The anger ad built inside Sherlock, and now, driven by both that and the intense desire to find out more about this man, he started after him. Toby leaped up and followed, keeping pace as best he could but stumbling frequently.

When Sherlock reached the corner he paused, yanking Toby to a standstill. He glanced around to make sure no one was in sight (no one was), and peeked around the corner. Chris had paused a few feet down and was obviously waiting for him. Sherlock pulled back before he was seen. He rubbed his temples, plans conflicting. But then…

_If he wants me to follow him…_

Sherlock stood up straight and walked briskly around the corner. As soon as he came into sight Chris whipped around and continued walking, but Sherlock wasn’t fooled. He followed Chris, putting into his footsteps the sound of a naïve stander-by determined to put this suspicious man to justice. He heard Chris snort. It was working.

Sherlock knew he was taking a risk, but then again, what could this guy really do? He wasn’t a big-time criminal; he had no resources but himself. Unless he lead Sherlock into a dark alley with a gang of thugs, there was not much he could do, and even in that case Sherlock was confident that he could use his wits to escape. He was mostly worried about the dog. John would be furious if anything happened to the dog.

Chris crossed the street and Sherlock followed. They left the jailhouse behind them and were nearing a wooded area with few houses and fewer vehicles or people.

_Low likelihood of being seen. Can’t call for help. Fine by me._

Toby began panting loudly and Sherlock saw a strand of saliva dangling from his lip. Disgusting. _Dogs._

Suddenly Chris darted into the woods. Sherlock blinked in surprise and hurried after him, determined not to lose him. He yanked Toby on and together they dove into the woods after the man. Sherlock’s eyes darted around as he tried to catch sight of him among the greenery; he listened for the sound of crackling footsteps….

Toby barked.

“I know!” Sherlock snapped, and headed left, following the sound of Chris’s footsteps.

He pulled up short when they entered a clearing. An old wood shed sat in the center, its door open slightly. Sherlock held his breath and listened; he heard nothing but the wind in the trees. He saw nothing but the trees and the shed. Toby lowered his head and stared into the darkness behind the slightly open door.

 _Don’t be an idiot,_ he heard John say in his head. _Don’t go in there._

Sherlock crept over to the shed and glanced inside. He wouldn’t go in. He saw a wallet lying on the floor of the shed, but it was obvious Chris was not there. So where had he—

_Oh—_

Toby let out a yelp as a strong force shove Sherlock in from behind. Sherlock tried to resist but he stumbled into the shed. Gaining his balance, he thrust himself against the door, but Chris had already closed it and Sherlock heard a latch slip into place. Sherlock pounded on the door but, though it was old, it was sturdy, and it would take some trying before he could break it down.

But he didn’t have time for that. He could hear Chris shouting in triumph on the other side. “Benny, ha!” he said. “I know you. You’re Sherlock Holmes. And you’re trying to poke you nose into my little affair. But I’ve had enough of it, buster, and you’re not coming between me and my wife.”

Sherlock stepped back from the door in fury, cursing himself for not listening to his internal John. Then his blood froze when he heard Toby barking from the other side.

_Toby’s out there. With him._

“As for you, you little mutt—“

“No!” Sherlock bellowed. He heard Toby bark again and Chris cursing. He heard a scuffling in the grass and the sound of flesh on flesh, the sound of snapping teeth and a thump—

“Stop it!” Sherlock shouted, pressing himself to the door again. “Toby, run! Run!”

A yelp, a thud, the sound of footsteps, and then—nothing.


	20. The Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John talks to Taylor through a window. Sherlock talks to Chris through a door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains non-graphic descriptions of domestic abuse, and mentions of blood.

John swallowed and tried to keep his calm smile on. “My name s John. Dr. John Watson,” he said quietly. “I’m here to help.”

Taylor took on a careful, guarded look. “I don’t need help,” she said. “And I don’t know why you called me Taylor. My name is Tilly. Tilly Keller.”

John had been around Sherlock long enough to be able to tell if someone was lying. Taylor looked very uneasy and her eyes shifted unconsciously when she lied. But it was still frustrating that she would lie in the first place.

“I know that’s an alias,” John said. “Your name is Taylor Kelly. I want to help you.”

Taylor glanced quickly at the guard, but he was merely watching, impassive. She turned back to John with her lips tight together and a face of stone.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

John leaned closer to her. “I’ve found your dog.”

“I—“ she gasped, then cast another glance around before mumbling to the floor, “I don’t have a dog.”

John sighed in frustration. “Alright. You don’t want to talk. I  understand. I’ll do the talking. Listen closely.” He took a deep breath. “Your name is Taylor Kelly and you’ve come over from America with your dog, Toby. You’re running away from your abusive husband because your parents won’t let you take the case to court or get a divorce. You’re going under the false name Kelly Taylor, working as an editor for a newspaper. You live in an apartment just outside of town and take Toby for frequent visits to the park. You’re here because you have a relative, a sister maybe, who lives nearby, but you don’t really want her help either. You recently got a text from your husband, a single smiley, which sent you into a panic, because that means he’s looking for you.”

“God!” Taylor almost shrieked. “Are you from the CIA?”

John almost laughed. “Of course not! We don’t have that over here. Let’s just say I have friends in high places.”

Taylor put her head in her hands and started shaking. “God, God,” she whispered. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

“I am?” John couldn’t help asking. He’d expected to have gotten a _few_ details wrong.

“Except about being the editor. I’m only an assistant.”

“Oh.” John fought against a feeling of chagrin.

“But GOD! Does that _matter?_ It’s like you read my mind. What do you want?” Her trembling grew more violent. John wished he could reach out to her, but the glass was between them. “How do you know all that?”

“It’s a long story, and I only have a few minutes. Please, Taylor, I want to help you. I know you’re innocent, but you can’t tell them that without revealing who you are. But I have to tell you, you’ve got to stop hiding.”

Her head jerked up, and he could see the tears in her face.

“You have to tell them the truth.  Tell them everything and your husband will come to justice.”

“I can’t,” she cried. “I can’t.”

“Time’s up,” the warden said.

John rose from his chair, still speaking rapidly. “I can show them all the evidence to support you. I can prove that you’re the victim. But you have to tell them. You can’t run away from him forever. Trust me. And Toby.”

“Toby,” she whispered. “Dr. Watson—“

The guard tapped her shoulder. She looked at him, then back at John, but the doctor had already left, lead out by the warden.

John tried to steady himself as he walked out of the jail house. He knew he had done the right thing. At least he hoped he knew that he did the right thing. Taylor would not stay in jail for very long for a street scuffle, but she would still be hiding even after her release. And in the meantime, what about Toby? And the husband that seemed to be threatening her? Would she have to be Tilly Keller and Kelly Taylor forever? How long before she had to run to another country under yet another fake name? Why wouldn’t she let him help her?

John reached the corner he’d left Sherlock and Toby at, and was annoyed to see they were not there. Leave it to Sherlock to get bored and wander off.

He looked around the corner to see if maybe he hadn’t just wandered a little ways. No one was there. John jogged over to the  other corner of the block and looked about, but still saw no sign of Sherlock or Toby. How was he supposed to find them? Had they returned to Baker Street without him?

John pulled out his phone and sent Sherlock a text message. _Where are you?_ In the meantime he lingered by the place he’d left them, just in case they came back to this spot.

He tried to focus on the case, but felt there was nothing he could do without either Sherlock or Taylor herself. All the facts were there; they just needed to take action. What kind of action exactly needed to be worked out, and John needed someone to bounce ideas off of.

He chuckled a little to himself. _Now I really know how Sherlock feels._

After five minutes with no response from his friend, he sent him another text message, thinking he had just missed the first one.

He probably had the ringer off. John dialed Sherlock’s number after another five minutes of waiting and put the phone to his ear. The other line rang once, twice, three times…

John growled. “Pick up.”

Four, five, six, and then Sherlock’s incredibly annoying voicemail: a simple tone with no invitation to leave any kind of message. John tried not to snap at the phone when he said, “Sherlock, it’s John. Where the devil are you? Pick up the phone already!” He hung up angrily and waited some more. What in heaven’s name could Sherlock be doing that would keep him from checking his phone for so long? Especially now, in the middle of a case? Unless something had happened…

Alarm suddenly jolted through him, and he dialed Sherlock’s number again. He willed Sherlock to pick it up, but was faced with leaving another message. But if Sherlock wasn’t picking up—if something was preventing him from doing so—it would be no use leaving him one.

John looked around for a clue, but there was nothing but the jailhouse, the busy street, and empty sidewalk.

**

Sherlock jerked his head up from where he’d rested it on the unyielding door. He thought he’d heard a beep just a second ago. Like the sound his phone made when he received a text message.

His phone!  Sherlock quickly checked his pockets, but none of them held his phone. Frantically he checked again, and then again. Still nothing. He searched around in the darkness, feeling the floor for the familiar shape of his phone, but found nothing but the wallet (empty, of course, an obvious decoy, he should have figured that out right away)—no phone, nowhere to be found.

The beep came again. Sherlock froze and retraced the sound in his head. He turned back to the door.

It was _outside._

He must have dropped it when Chris shoved him. Or when he stumbled into the clearing. Or—did it really matter? It was out there—where he was not.

He listened with something akin to agony as the phone began to ring. He tried shoving the door again. It continually creaked, but would not give. He checked for hinges, but they all must have been on the outside with the latch. Sherlock shoved harder on the door and this time heard a crack. Encouraged, he rammed his shoulder into it.

That is, right into a nail.

 _Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeee!_ Was the sound resonating through his head, but of course, he was Sherlock Holmes, so if you’d been there in the darkness beside him, you would have heard only “Unph.”

Sherlock eased his arm away from the protrusion and tested the wound with his fingers. It didn’t seem terribly deep and he couldn’t feel much blood, nor did pain ever have much effect on him, but he worried a bit about the possibility of tetanus, and wondered if he was up-to-date on his vaccination. He couldn’t quite recall. He would have to ask John.

He heard his phone begin ringing again. This was the third time. Sherlock was about to plow down the door once and for all or die trying when he heard the ring suddenly cut off.

_Someone…is out there._

“Shut up,” came Chris’s voice.

Sherlock tensed.

“I found your dog,” Chris drawled, loud enough for Sherlock to hear clearly. “Or my dog, as I should say.”

“What did you do?” Sherlock shouted.

Chris laughed. “You want to know? There’s some things I want to know, too. Like why you’re so interested in my wife. And how you stole my dog from her.”

“Tell me what you did to Toby,” Sherlock said, very quietly this time.

“Sorry, missed that. Gotta speak up, fellow.”

“What—did you do---to the dog?” Sherlock hissed out.

“Nuh-uh. You have to speak first. Come on, _mate._ Do it and I’ll let you out.”

“I can get out myself.” An idea occurred to Sherlock. “Do you have my phone?”

“It’s yours, is it?” He heard Chris take a few steps closer to the door. “Oh, I see now. Sherlock Holmes. I already knew that. And look, here’s your boyfriend. The good doctor himself. What a long list of contacts you have, Mr. Holmes.”

It was obvious Chris was not used to being a villain, and was wasting time while he tried to think of something clever to do. He was a very ineffective intimidator, and Sherlock thought quickly of how to take advantage of his stupidity.

“Could you text Mrs. Hudson for me?” he asked in his Benny voice. “If you’re going to keep me in here all day, she’ll need to know I won’t be back in time for supper.”

Chris snorted. “What am I, your maid? No way. She’s gonna just hafta worry about you.”

“Well, then, could you text Lestrade for me? Tell him I’ve solved the case.”

“Nothing doing! Text a detective? And if it’s _my_ case you’re talking about, keep your Scottish Yard out of it.”

Sherlock let out a fake indignant huff. “Well, then, would you be so kind as to text my friend Molly for me? Thank her for the help she’s been giving me today.”

“Shut it, alright? I’m not texting anybody for you. You’re gonna stay here until I say so, until I can fix my problem without you guys interfering.”

“Well, John’s still in town,” Sherlock said. “But you don’t have to worry about him.”

There was a slight silence on the other side, then a scuff on the grass as Chris took a step closer to the door. “Whaddaya mean?”

“John, my colleague. The case is his, actually. I’m just tagging along.” Sherlock sincerely hoped John would not kill him for this later. “He’s the one that has the evidence for the case. In fat he’s visiting your wife right now.”

“He _is?_ ” Chris said. “Well, maybe I should send him a little note of encouragement.”

“No,” Sherlock said, “don’t. He’ll only try to come find me!”

Chris laughed. “That’s exactly what I was hoping. Thanks for the info, Mr. Holmes. I’ll just wait for him to come to me.” Sherlock could her the man’s thumbs skitter across the screen of his phone. “One message for John,” he said.

Sherlock hoped it didn’t say anything insane. But he knew John would know what it meant, whatever it said. If only he could somehow find a way to tell him _where…_

_**_

John was becoming really worried; the third time he’d called Sherlock, out of sheer desperation, (having run up and down both blocks with not a clue as to his whereabouts) he’d got cut off after the second ring. Had Sherlock hung up on him? Or had someone else done it? What was going on?

He was just about to run back to Baker Street to make sure he hadn’t just crashed on the couch when he heard his own phone let off a ting. He yanked it out of his pocket and saw there was a message there from Sherlock. Quickly he clicked it open and read:

:)

A chill went down his spine.

**

_Toby crawled out from where he lay hidden under a bush in the woods. The man with the cruel hands had chased him through the trees after Toby had bit him for throwing his Sherlock into the shed. Toby had never bit the cruel hands before; he’d been too afraid to. So many times those hands had slapped him, hit him, grabbed and shaken him, that Toby had learned to hide whenever he saw them. Never had he bitten them; he was too afraid the hitting would get worse. And too many  times had he seen those same hands hitting his Taylor when the humans were shouting at each other. How he had longed to bite them then, to put an end to their hitting. But fear had always kept him away. Even when the sobbing of his girl had lasted the entire night. No, it was too terrible to be a biter. He would not be a biter dog._

_But those hands had gone too far today._

_Toby had seen those hands hitting his girl, and he had seen those hands running from him when he ran after them in the street. He had seen those hands holding the smoking stick and trying to hit him again. He had seen those hands shoving his Sherlock into the wood shed. And that had finally been enough. Those hands hurt too many people. And Toby knew that even if the hands would punish him for it, he had to fight back. If he could stop those cruel hands, he would. Even if the hands choked him again, even if the slapped him again, he was going to stop those hands._

_Toby had bit them both, swiftly, first one and then the other. He felt an unfamiliar taste in his mouth, a vile, sticky warm taste that made his stomach lurch. He’d drawn blood. The hands were bleeding!_

_But the hands had turned on him then, grasping and choking. Toby yelped and struggled, growled and pulled. A fierce darkness swirled at the edge of his vision, and he became more frightened than he had ever been in his life. The hands had hurt him before. But now they were going to kill him._

_Toby used his claws, tearing at the hands until the let go, and running away in panic. He knew he was bad to leave his Sherlock behind, but at that moment all he could feel was the cruel hands around his neck, choking him.  He heard the footsteps of the man pursuing him and tried to find a place to hide. There was a house nearby and he ran to it, barking and barking. But no one came quickly enough. The hands were catching up to him, and he had to keep running._

_Toby was too slow. The hands caught up, grabbed him, throttled him. Toby tried to fight back but the hands were too strong and he gave up. He felt himself fly a moment through the air before he landed in the grass. He was still alive. He felt pain all over his body and the nasty taste was all over his mouth now, as if it belonged to him. Toby heard the hands moving behind him and crawled under a bush, the best shelter he could reach. The sounds faded away and he was alone._

_He waited until he didn’t hurt as much before he crawled back out again. It hurt more to move than to stand still, but he knew the hands were still around here somewhere. They were going to find his Taylor and hurt her again. Toby wanted to stop those hands. He was filled with shame when he thought of how he had let himself give up. Let the hands chase him and beat him. He had let the hands escape and find his girl and hurt her._

_Toby stood up and limped as fast as he could in the direction the hands had run. He was going to stop those hands, really this time. He remembered the terrible blackness that had overwhelmed him before. Well, he was going to face that. If it meant he could stop those cruel hands, he would let the blackness take him._


	21. The Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John deduces. Taylor decides.

The thoughts that swamped John’s mind were not pleasant ones.

_He’s been playing with me._

Had it been him the entire time? Was that what he was telling him now? The entire thing had been a joke, a trick, a pretty little puzzle, and John had been his target?

_“I’ll watch him run around awhile, solve the thing himself, see how he likes it.”_

Plant a dog on their front step, make up some wild story about it, tie it to some recent disappearance, and _voila—_ John was duped.

Give John the role of the high-functioning sociopath for a day. Leave a trail of clues for him to follow, knowing because it was about the dog, he would. All the while watching him make a fool of himself. Watching him break the bloody law!

And now he’d run off with Toby just to text John the smiley and let him know it was all over. _“You’ve solved it, genius. Nothing left to follow now. But tell me who was really the smart one? You or me?”_

John clenched his fist and rammed the phone back into his pocket. If Sherlock was going to be that way, John would not deign to answer. He would not be made a fool of again. He marched down the sidewalk in the direction of Baker Street. All this time, and all that encouragement—

John paused. Something didn’t quite make sense. Sherlock had spent that evening helping him pick apart the mystery. At the time he’d seemed to know even less about it then John, but could it have all been an act? Was Sherlock that good? Somehow it just didn’t fit. Why, if he was amused watching John scramble around by himself, would he assist him at any point during the adventure?

And what about bailing him out of jail? Or, for Heaven’s sake, that conversation they’d just had that morning? Where Sherlock had apologized (unheard of!) and even admitted that, yes, he considered John his best and only friend? Was that all part of the act? Or had Sherlock simply realized he’d gone too far? Then why this taunt? What was he playing at _now?_

John turned back to the jailhouse and wondered a moment. His first assumption slowly melted form his mind as the whole picture began to fit itself back together. Sherlock had not planned any of it. And since he hadn’t, then the smiley was not a taunt. That only left two possible solutions:

_Sherlock’s being ridiculous._

_He’s trying to tell me something._

Somehow Sherlock had been cornered by the man who had sent that text to Taylor. He was being prevented from answering the phone himself. Either Chris had taken the phone from Sherlock or was making Sherlock send the text. But no, what would that do for him? Just let John know he was still around? It must have been Sherlock’s idea. He was trying to tell him something. Chris had him cornered. John had to find him. But where, for Pete’s sake _where…_

There came a bark.

**

Taylor sat in the darkness of her cell and kneaded her hands in her lap. She could not believe what had just happened, could not comprehend how anyone could know so much about her. Even Chris could not have found out so much. How in the beloved world had that man, that Dr. Watson, found out so much about her? Her thoughts spun, circular and repetitive, through her head. How could he know, how could he know, how could he know…

Then she thought of Toby.

He’d told her he’d found Toby.

So Toby was alright, then, he was not roaming the streets, helpless among the cars and mean people and wild animals. He was safe. The thought made her want to weep with relief.

But only if she knew she could trust this man.

 _You have to tell them._ No, she couldn’t tell them. She remembered what had happened that day on the street, the day he had texted her with the message she knew too well. _I know where you are_. She’d been trying to hail a taxi when she’d seen Chris on the other side of the street. He had pulled out his phone and, with horrible, exaggerated movements, sent her another text message. And even though her phone was lying on her bedroom floor, she knew exactly what he’d sent her.

_There’s no way out._

She ran, then; as fast as she could, lifting Toby into her arms and going as fast as her jellied legs would carry her. But it was no use; he’d seen her, he knew where she lived. He caught up to her at the street corner and backed her against the wall of a restaurant. “You’re coming back with me,” he’d said. “Stop being an idiot and come back with me.”

She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t.

But when she’d tried to run, Chris had grabbed her, and when she’d struggled, he hollered as if she were trying to murder him. When the police officers started coming over, Taylor dropped Toby, and in a panic the dog ran.

Ran.

Away.

They’d both been arrested, but Taylor had been too terrified to tell her the truth. In the two seconds they had been accidentally left in the questioning room alone together, Chris had told her that if she spilled the beans he would find Toby and kill him. After that she had not seen him again. They’d been lead off into separate areas and questioned separately, but it was as though Chris were standing in the corner of the room, staring at her and willing her to not say a single word.

 _I can’t let him kill Toby. Better to be a stray dog roaming the streets of London than thrown into the Thames or locked in the closet to starve._ Taylor shivered when she thought of the various ways Chris had threatened Toby over the years…

_Toby._

_Toby._

Dr. Watson had said that Toby was with him. And if he really was a doctor, he would know how to take care of animals. Wouldn’t it be better if she remained where she was, then? Chris would not find Toby if he was with a doctor.

No. That wasn’t true. Chris could find whoever he was looking for. He’d found her. How many times had he managed to find her? And so many times it had been _because_ of Toby. He’d seen her out walking him. If he saw Dr. Watson walking Toby…

Taylor clasped her hands before her face. There was only one way she could protect Toby, keep him safe forever. She had to expose Chris. She had to tell them the truth...

**

Sherlock crouched, nursing the wound on his arm (which had begun an annoying throbbing that interfered with his train of thought) and listening to Chris muttering outside. Sherlock had long since ceased giving him the pleasure of replies, and was trying to decide which was more effective: getting out of the shed now and subduing Chris by himself, or waiting a long time to see if John might happen upon him and subdue Chris with reinforcement. Chris was not a skilled fighter—it was apparent that though he was strong, he mostly relied on guile to take advantage of weaker parties—but for all Sherlock knew, the man had a gun, and would hear Sherlock knocking out the hinges and stand waiting with it cocked and aiming for his head when he burst out.

Though Sherlock would be more than happy to take that risk and rely on his instincts to dodge the bullet, he could almost hear John growling at him to stay put and be patient for once.

John was right; to evade the bullet would require the completion of an entirely different equation, which at the time had too many variables, as Sherlock could not see his enemy. He remembered the shape of the clearing (an oblong, obviously man-cleared circle) and the amount of clear space around the shed (approximately three meters to the left and right, four in front, and about one behind) and the number of trees that overhung annoyingly, causing ample obstacle (two facing the front of the shed and one to the left, the first of which had many spiny branches in a fan-shaped arrangement; in this case not botanically consistent but merely accidental). Other than that, though, he barely knew anything about his surroundings. There were too many areas he could go wrong, and though he’d been in much, much tighter spots before, he was hard-pressed to risk himself for a dog. No matter how attached he—that is, John, certainly not Sherlock—had grown of that dog.

He’d simply have to wait for John. Infuriating, but necessary. Besides, John was reliable. If there was anything John was, it was reliable…

**

John followed the sound of the bark around the corner of the street and looked quickly around for signs of the dog. It didn’t take him long to see Toby limping as quickly as he could up the sidewalk towards him. When he saw john he quickened his pace even further, causing the limp to become more pronounced and obviously more painful. John sprinted over to the dog and stopped him with his hands. Kneeling, he ran his fingers delicately over the body, checking for injuries. Toby whimpered and struggled and tried to lick his face. He was obviously very distressed, and John found evidence of an intense struggle: there were cuts and bruises on his back and sides, and the paw he limped on was twisted and swollen. A bit of blood stained the fur around his muzzle. If John hadn’t known that this was Toby, he would have assumed it was a rabid mongrel. But since he knew who it was, there was only one possible explanation: someone had been fighting this dog.

“Oh, Toby, oh, Toby, oh, Toby…” The poor thing was shaking and crying, and yet he pulled away from John’s grasp and started running down the sidewalk in the opposite direction he had come. He looked at Jon over his shoulder, eyes wide, pain-filled and pleading.

That’s when it hit John: Sherlock.

Sherlock was in trouble.

And Toby knew where he was.

The cars on the street roared past in utter indifference to the drama unfolding on the unpopulated sidewalk. John knew that Toby needed help, right now. But he also knew that Sherlock very likely needed help as well. Toby cried at him and turned in a frantic circle, trying to get him to follow. But the poor dog could barely walk, and John had no idea where Sherlock was.

 _I’ve got to call somebody; I’ve got to get help._ But who? Lestrade? John winced at the thought. He’d already wasted Lestrade’s morning. The guy had work to do, and that probably did not involve chasing dogs down the street of London.

How could he let Toby lead the way when he was hurt? But what else could he do, carry him? John had no idea where to go, but Toby did. Only Toby did.

John hated himself for taking advantage of an injured animal, but there was only one way he could find his friend, and that was by letting Toby lead the way. He fell into step behind the dog, and Toby sprinted forward.

**

_Toby ran as fast as his hurt paw would let him. He looked over his shoulder every so often to make sure his John was following him. He had to take him to where Sherlock was, trapped by the cruel hands. They had to help his Sherlock and they had to stop those cruel hands from hurting anyone else._

_There was no scent of bitter chemicals for Toby to follow this time. He limped and panted and tried to ignore the pain in his head and paws as he followed his memory down the street._


	22. The Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John arrives. Sherlock worries. Chris tries to be clever. Toby surprises everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I--am very sorry for the long wait. Life got crazy.  
> I hope you enjoy the last chapters.  
> Chapter contains non-graphic, brief mild violence towards the end.

Sherlock slowly, silently pulled the bolt out of the last hinge as he listened to Chris mumbling over Sherlock’s phone. John was certainly taking his time. It had already been four minutes and twenty-two seconds since Chris had sent the text message to him. Sherlock had managed to pull out the hinges without attracting Chris’s attention as Chris fumbled over Sherlock’s phone, trying to get past the passwords to read more about him.

“The contacts list was right up front,” Chris spat at him through the door.

“One of my contacts lists was,” Sherlock said. It was easy enough to protect one’s phone with a password, but why make your information so obviously hidden? Sherlock was smarter than that; he’d created decoys of everything to be immediately presented to whosoever managed to get their hands on his phone. That way they’d assume they knew everything when in fact all they knew was what anybody who read John’s blog (which was everybody if he believed his flat mate’s boasting) already knew: that he had John’s, Mrs. Hudson’s, Lestrade’s and Molly’s numbers; that he’d installed a weather app; that he had a map of the city in his image file—things like that, trivial things. The numbers belonging to people like Mycroft and the pictures of crime scenes from old cases, _those_ were password-protected, and he was enjoying Chris curse over his inability to even find the way to punch in the password. Let alone guess what it was.

“There is no phone like this,” Chris said. “This is impossible.”

“Ah, but you’re dealing with the world’s only consulting detective,” Sherlock purred. “I have my own inventions.”

“You can’t just pull an app like this out of the blue.”

“I can.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s extraordinarily useful.”

“You’re a maniac.”

“Sociopath is my preferred term.”

“Shut up!”

“If you wish me not to speak, then stop addressing me.”

“I wasn’t talking to you in the first place!”

“Who, then, were you referring and projecting to?”

“Myself—sociopath!”

“Americans,” Sherlock grumbled.

They heard a bark.

Sherlock stiffened. _Toby._

Toby was alive.

That is, he was not hurt. Sherlock was not the type to irrationally fear for another’s life. Besides, he hadn’t really been worried. It’s not like he was fond of the dog. He was merely grateful that he had— _it_ had—survived its encounter with Chris and was capable of barking, otherwise they might be compelled to invest in some kind of treatment for it which would more likely than not be exorbitantly expensive —

“That dog!” Chris said it like it was a curse. Then he laughed. “Sounds like your friend’s coming along too—we’ll see what happens.”

 _He can’t hurt John,_ Sherlock thought. _Does he really think he’s strong enough?_

Quiet footsteps made their way into the trees. Sherlock strained his ears for the sound of Toby’s bark, or John’s voice, or crashing through the trees, or—

“Sherlock, you in there?”

Sherlock practically jumped out of his skin. How in hell had John snuck up on him like that? He supposed, after all the cases they’d had to creep around for, but still—

“Sherlock, it’s me! Are you—“

“I know it’s you!” Sherlock snapped. “But what made you think I was—“

“Your phone. And Toby.”

Sherlock heard a snuffling, whining sound at the bottom of the door. He crouched and tried to see through the space between the door and the ground, but all he saw was a vague round nose-ish shape.

“Is he alright? The dog?”

“Okay for now,” John said. Sherlock cold hear him making efforts to open the door with the handle. “Why haven’t you broken out of here?”

Sherlock stood and gave the door a kick. Now hingeless, it swung open at the latch. John and Toby leaped back in surprise.

“I was waiting for you,” Sherlock said.

They surveyed each other quickly, looking for signs of distress. John noticed the tear in Sherlock’s sleeve and the telltale bloodstain, and was about to comment on it when Sherlock stooped to insect Toby.

The little dog was trembling still, but licked at Sherlock’s hands as he gently ran them over his body, muttering to himself.

“Chris is in the trees, waiting to jump you,” Sherlock said briskly. John’s head snapped up and he looked around quickly. “We need to get Toby to a vet, right now.”

John said, loudly, “I talked to Taylor.”

Sherlock looked up. He could not see Chris, but when he scanned the trees, he sensed some kind of disturbance among the green, and extra level of shadow where there should be none. John spoke again.

“She pretended she was someone else. She refused to accuse her husband. But then I told her everything I’d found out, how he’s beaten her, and that her family refuses to let them divorce. I offered her the services of London’s best lawyer, and told her that she could win her case easily and put Chris behind bars. I told her people like that have no rights whatsoever—“

Sherlock could easily tell that John was lying, but he knew Chris probably could not. As the man hurled himself through the trees, Sherlock scooped Toby into his arms and dove back into the shed, guarding the dog with his arms as Chris lunged toward them. John grabbed Chris by the back of his shirt and tried to subdue him by holding his wrists, but Chris broke free and aimed a punch at John’s face. Sherlock let Toby go and stood, holding the dog back with his foot, and attempted to intervene. But Toby rushed past him and flung himself at Chris, snarling like a rabid wolf.

The two men broke apart in wake of the dog, and Chris’s cry was piercing. Toby’s teeth flashed as he tore through Chris’s shirt and made for the skin beneath. Chris fought back blindly, shielding his face with one hand and parrying with the other. Toby’s paws thrashed against him, his back claws ripping through Chris’s jeans and leaving long pink marks on his skin.

For a moment both John and Sherlock were stunned into stillness, but at Chris’s second scream John broke out of his trance and rushed to the man’s side. He grabbed Toby around the middle and yanked him away. Chris cowered beneath him as he held the snarling dog over him.

“God, Toby,” John panted.

Toby lurched in John’s arms as he tried to pounce on Chris again. Chris scrambled away so quickly he fell on his face twice; kicking the ground, he managed to shove his back against a tree, extending a trembling hand to point at Toby.

“Keep that thing away from me,” Chris shouted. “It’s rabid. The mutt’s gone rabid.”  
  
John shot Sherlock a worried look, but Sherlock shook his head. Toby was already calming down. John held him closer and stroked him, whispering words of comfort, while Sherlock walked up to Chris and loomed over him. Beaten into respect, the man looked up at him fearfully.

“Step out of line again and we’ll be forced to sick him on you,” Sherlock said, then gave him a dazzling smile. Chris cringed and covered his face again.

“Alright. You win. That stupid dog!”


	23. The Whole Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taylor tells all.

Chris had never seen a dog that small act so ferocious. He’d known that dog its whole life, up until the time his wife had run away, taking it with her. It had been a slobbery, goo-eyed mongrel that did whatever he or his wife wanted it to.

Chris had never believed that dogs had feelings, and that was why it was so easy for him to beat up on the dog. He couldn’t be hurting it, because dogs couldn’t feel anything. Yeah, it yelped and ran away from him, but that was just instinct. Dogs had no emotions.

And yet he had never seen such fury as he had seen in that dog’s eyes when it lunged at is throat.

Toby, the dog he had terrorized for months, the dog who would stick its tail between its legs and run whenever Chris came into a room, the one that hid under the bed at night to avoid him; that dumb animal had attacked him. It was like it wanted revenge or something.

But that was impossible. Dogs couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel.

Chris was overwhelmed. He’d always felt that the dog was conspiring with his wife, but dismissed it because dogs could not conspire. And now he was being attacked by a dog, the dog he’d beaten to the ground only a few minutes ago, the dog he’d been beating to the ground for the past year. The dog wanted to kill him. He could see it in his eyes. He wanted to kill him.

 _Let’s hope they put that lousy mutt to sleep,_ Chris thought when the police finally arrived. But it was he who ended up in cuffs and dragged off to the clink, for the second time that week. Well, he’d bailed himself out last time. He had plenty of dough. Or they’d hear his story and let him go. He was just about ready to give up on his wife. It didn’t seem worth it anymore. The only thing that was important now was keeping his up image. But he’d been doing that his entire life.

***

Taylor was holding Toby in her arms and Toby was licking the tears off her face. Sherlock sat in a chair opposite her, staring at the wall to avoid being forced to comment. But John was smiling at her like a lunatic, happier than he’d been all week. Finally, finally, the case was closed, and Toby had found his home.

“I told them,” Taylor gasped when Toby gave her room to breathe. “I told them the truth, and they believed me. And a detective stopped by earlier, I think it was the one you called, and he verified everything you’d told me.” She paused to press her nose against Toby’s forehead.

It was an hour or so after Chris’s arrest, and Toby, thankfully, had been seen to. After seeing Chris subdues by the police, the little dog gone limp in John’s arms and appeared to be fainting, or whatever the dog equivalent of fainting was. John had panicked, but Sherlock kept a cool head, barking at one of the policemen to drive them to the nearest vet’s office.

John had held Toby carefully during the much-too-long drive, watching him, making sure that he kept breathing. Sherlock had monitored him as well, and to John’s surprise even began to rattle off a list of emergency procedures in case something should happen before they got there. He’d had no idea Sherlock knew so much about dogs.

When they arrived Sherlock had burst in and proclaimed it an emergency, demanding the attention of everyone in the building. Ordinarily John would have been annoyed or embarrassed, but right then he’ been too intent on watching Toby’s face, as the little dog took one slow breath after another, hearing the faint whine at each exhale.

Thanks to Sherlock’s insistence, they saw a vet immediately, and Toby was bustled off. Sherlock and John were told to remain in the lobby with the other “owners” (who watched them out of the corner of their eyes while pretending not to). John sat tensely, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap, but Sherlock paced the entire length of the room, hands behind his back and head bent, muttering the probability of death based on such-and-such a combination of injuries.

The vet had returned an hour (or a few, John wasn’t sure) later with the good news that Toby would be fine. The injuries turned out to be relatively minor, though it was obvious he would need some tender, loving care for quite some time—care that John was sure Taylor would be able to supply. Sherlock had demanded to see proof of that claim and caused another ruckus, but John just melted against the back of his chair and chuckled, almost crying with pure relief. Sherlock did love that dog, as much as he would deny it.

It was the next day, and John and Sherlock had been allowed to speak to Taylor as Lestrade and the wardens went over the details of her release and Chris’s arrest.

Toby relaxed enough to lie quietly in Taylor’s lap, reaching up occasionally to nuzzle her or lick her face. He cast an affectionate look at John once or twice, but it was clear he was completely absorbed in his girl. John knew this was the best, and he was heartily glad for it, but there was still a small, sad part of him that would miss the times when he’d been Toby’s everything.

Sherlock cleared his throat, prompting John into action. (Thankfully Sherlock’s wound had been seen to as well; the puncture was not too deep, but it would be up to John to make sure his friend stayed on the antibiotics.) John pulled out his notebook to review the facts he’d scribbled while waiting to talk to Taylor.

“There are just a few details remaining that I don’t quite understand,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve gone over everything a few times already with Lestrade and the police, but would you mind answering a few questions from me as well?”

Taylor nodded. “You’re the one that saved me, Dr. Watson—me and Toby both. I’m beholden to you entirely.”

John smiled, embarrassed, and ignored Sherlock’s proud smirk. He cleared his throat and asked the first question.  “What exactly was going on between you and your husband?”

Taylor stroked Toby’s back and her eyes wandered to the floor. It was a moment before she answered. “Chris and I never really got along,” she said. “I mean, I did like him when we first married. But the truth is, I barely knew him. His parents and mine converged and talked to the priest of our church, each looking for a match for their kids—me and Chris. Chris and I went to the same church, and I knew him because of that. He liked the girls, and was nice and everything, but always kind of a show-off. Me, I was more quiet and kept to myself, but I guess you could say I admired him. I’m not sure why my priest would have told my parents that Chris and I were a perfect match, but he did.” Her head jerked up slightly, as if a vivid memory had taken over her mind. “So we had a date. It went okay, but they thought it went great. We kept going out after that, regularly. My parents and his thought we were made for each other and so did Chris. But the fact of the matter is this: he was a great talker, and I was a great listener. That was it. We had nothing else in common. He loved sports and making out and eating and hanging out with the guys. I liked my religion, I liked animals, I liked to read. He’d drag me off to sports events and I was too polite to refuse. That would have been okay, but he made me participate—you know, get all excited and cheer and stuff. I’d rather just read a book while everybody else screamed, but he made it miserable for me.” Her tone grew increasingly bitter as she went on.

“So, anyway, we weren’t that great a couple. But he thought we were; our parents thought we were; and I pretended we were. I didn’t know what else to do. I hoped he’d get nicer after we got married, but he didn’t It was the same all the time. And then I thought, if we had children, everything would be okay.”

Taylor’s hand trembled on Toby’s back. The little go reached up to lick her and she embraced him gratefully.

Sherlock spoke. “You’re infertile.”

John slapped his forehead and let out a hiss.

Taylor looked up and narrowed her eyes at the detective. Sherlock looked in confusion from her to John. “What? It’s the truth.”

“Delicacy, my dear detective,” John said. He looked up and smiled apologetically at Taylor. “He does that.”

“You guys are magicians,” Taylor said, a bit tartly. “But Mr. Lestrade told me about you, so I won’t even ask about it.” She cleared her throat and went on.

“You’re right, I can’t have kids. I couldn’t back then either. I was devastated when I found out. Chris and I tried to get me pregnant, but then the doctor said it was no use.” She cleared her throat again and played with a tuft of Toby’s fur. “Everything went downhill after that. I think Chris thought, somehow, that it was my own fault I couldn’t have kids. He blamed me, anyway. It wasn’t fair, but that’s what I had to deal with.”

She cleared her throat and went on.

“My mother said that we should adopt a child, but Chris’s parents were against it. I think they were made at me, too. They seemed to think it was because of something I’d done in the past that prevented me from having kids. But they wouldn’t allow us to adopt, to let what they called strangers into the family. It wasn’t fair.

“So, I thought, if we can’t have children, we can at least have a pet. I went to the humane society and adopted a puppy, to surprise Chris. It was Toby.” The dog pricked his ears at the sound of his name, and Taylor’s face softened with a smile. Then it darkened with the next memory. “But Chris hated him. He wasn’t pleased at all. He ridiculed me for trying to surprise him. He said a dog was the last thing we needed. But, even after that, he didn’t make any attempts to throw Toby out, so I thought that maybe he would learn to love him. I already did. I knew I could never give Toby up.”

Sherlock was growing visibly impatient, but, since this was John’s case, seemed to feel he had no say in the proceedings. John cleared his throat quietly, trying to still his flat mate’s fidgeting. Taylor seemed to sense the awkwardness, and hurried on.

“But anyway, with all that, we just stopped getting along. I spent more time with Toby than with him, and he noticed it. He grew angrier and angrier, and our arguments grew more frequent. That’s when…that’s when the…hitting started. He hit me. And he hit Toby.”  She clutched her dog more tightly. “Our parents refused to let me divorce him. They said I just had to get over his mistreatment. But I couldn't handle it. I had to get away.”

She paused when John gave her a confused look. Prompted by her silence, John asked, “Why didn’t you tell your parents that Chris was beating you? Don’t you think they’d be just as angry about it as you?”

Taylor shook her head, brow creased. “You don’t understand. They didn’t believe me when I told them Chris hit me. Chris was such a nice guy when he was in public, always putting on the front of the perfect husband. My parents, and his actually, told me that if there was anything wrong with our relationship, it must be my fault. They just couldn’t bring themselves to think that Chris was anything but the perfect son and husband.”

“But surely they saw that you were unhappy? Didn’t they care about how you felt?”

“They just kept saying it was my fault, and I had to pray to be a better person. I actually believed them, Dr. Watson. I thought they were right and it was my fault. But when he started hitting Toby, too, I knew I couldn’t stay. My parents wouldn’t listen; I talked to my priest and he said that God frowned on divorce, and that I should just try to make peace with my husband. I got sick of it.” She spat the words out. “Why did I have to do everything? Chris was the one who needed to change. So I ran away. At first I just checked into a hotel in town, hiding for a few days until Chris got worried and came to apologize. At first that seemed like that’s what was going to happen; he called me on my cell phone and said he was worried and wanted me to come home. So I did, and he even kissed me when I got there, but when I told him why I’d run, he got really mad and started yelling again. He even tried to strangle Toby.” She clutched her dog tighter, and Toby looked at her, head cocked, obviously sensing her distress.  “So I ran again, right then and there; I took Toby away from him and we ran. I took a bus out of town and spent the night at some cheap motel I’d never heard of, then tried to find a job to support myself. But Chris found me. No matter where I went, he always found me.” Her gaze hardened. “Until I made up a fake name and started sneaking around in the shadows. That threw him for a loop.” She let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

“My sister lives in London, so I decided to come here for a while. But all this running around was so hard on Toby that I decided I had to give him up. It was the hardest thing I ever did. And then it didn’t even last. I got so scared that some bad person would adopt him, or that he’d be put down. I kept checking their listings to see if he was still there. I realized I was too scared to lose him, so I re-adopted him a week or so after giving him up. By then I'd found an apartment that allowed dogs, and a job as assistant editor for a newspaper. Toby and I went for long walks in the park, and I spent some time with my sister. I thought everything was going to be fine, for once. But then Chris found me again.” She grimaced. “I guess I should have thought of a better pseudonym.”

She stopped talking, and after letting her catch her breath, John spoke. “My other question is about your sister. Why didn’t you ask her to help you?”

Taylor let out a sigh. “What could she do? We’re both women, and no one listens to us. My parents had pretty much disowned her because she fell in love with another woman. That’s why she moved here; she was sick of all the homophobia where we lived. There was nothing she could do but comfort me, and even then, it got so hard to see her, when she had such a wonderful, loving relationship with _her_ spouse—I guess I got a little jealous, since her life seemed so perfect. I gave her the cold shoulder for quite a while. I’m sorry that I did. She never tried to hurt me.”

“How did Chris find you?” John asked.

Taylor shifted Toby in her lap until his head was against her chest. “I’m not sure,” she admitted, “but I think he just followed my tracks, so to speak. The law was on his side, really, since we’re still married. Besides, I just wasn’t very good at hiding.”

John nodded. He could tell that Chris was the reckless type. And he had a kind of charisma, so he’d probably had not trouble getting people on his side.

“And about those letters and things scattered around your apartment—“

Taylor interrupted with a small laugh. “I kept everything,” she admitted. “Even the letters my mother-in-law sent me when my relationship with Chris went downhill. I just kept everything in a box, but I was a terrible organizer, so things kind of just…fell around, and I left them there.”

“Fortunately for John,” Sherlock said.

Toby let out a weary, doggy sigh.

“One last question,” John said, realizing this conversation was getting pretty long. “What did the smilies mean?”

Taylor shook her head, a bitter smile on her lips. “It used to be a joke between us. He’d send me a smiley face when he got off work to let me know he’d be home soon. I thought it was cute, but at the same time, it was kind of demeaning. It was like I was just a little girl to him, something to amuse and be amused by. It’s not like he was writing ‘I love you’ or anything. And then when I ran away, he started sending me a smiley face whenever he found out where I was. The first time it happened, I had a panic attack. It was so sudden. And it was terrifying, but I knew exactly what it meant. I packed up as quickly as I could and stuffed all my stuff and Toby and myself in to a taxi and told the drover to take me as far away as she could, and the whole time I was scared to death that Chris was following me. He did at first, but he must have given up. Or maybe he was just waiting. It wasn’t long before I got the next text.”

Sherlock was fixed on her now, intrigued. “A code, a symbol,” he murmured. “Meaningless and yet intelligible. Grotesque, almost. A very effective scare tactic.”

“Yeah, I thought so too,” Taylor said, looking at him in confusion.

Toby let out a loud yawn his pink tongue unfurling from his mouth. Taylor giggled and hugged him close. “But it’s all over now,” she breathed into his fur. “Thanks to you, it’s all over now.”


	24. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Taylor say goodbye. Sherlock takes things his own way. Toby is Toby, which is to say, a wonderful dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. Thanks to everyone who stuck through it all. This was my first fic and I'm still very proud of it. I hope you enjoyed it.

The following days were mostly centered on paperwork, according to Lestrade; and of course John was called on frequently to relay evidence and as somewhat of a witness. John professed stupidity on the topic, but Sherlock saw the tiny, pleased smile he wore whenever Lestrade rang him up. He eavesdropped on John’s breathless recounting of his adventure, his descriptions of the clues and whatnot, while lounging on the couch, feigning boredom.

After about a week, though, John got an email from Taylor.

_Dear Dr. Watson,_

_I wanted to let you know that everything’s been settled. I am going back to America with Chris, and we are filing a divorce. I don’t care anymore what my parents say about it, and especially not what_ his _parents say about it. Chris is being referred to an American prison, where he will probably just bail himself out. But I’m not worried about him anymore. Now the world knows all about him, and I am free._

_Anyway, I thought you might want to come visit me at the apartment so I can properly thank you, and so you can say goodbye to Toby. I’m sure he’s going to miss you._

_I hope you’ll come! I’m leaving on Saturday._

_Sincerely,_

_Taylor_

John sat for a moment staring at the email. For the past few days he’d been visiting Taylor and Toby as they worked out the details of the case. Sherlock had even tagged along more than once, ostensibly to make sure John did not get a swelled head; but John knew that he wanted to visit Toby. Astonishingly enough, it had not occurred to John that Taylor would be going back to America—with Toby.

He closed his laptop and turned to the detective sprawled on the couch tuning his violin.

“Taylor’s leaving,” John said.

Sherlock looked up. “Was she here?”

John shook his head and snorted. “No, I mean she’s leaving London. Toby too.”

Sherlock froze, then said, “Naturally.” He began to tune his violin again, but John noticed he was tuning it flat.

“She wants us to come over and say goodbye,” John added tentatively.

Sherlock turned his head toward the back of the couch. “Are you going?”

“Well, I was thinking. Are you?”

Sherlock tuned some more.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said at last.

John watched him a moment, hands drumming his knees. “It does matter,” he said quietly. “You’re going to miss him.”

Sherlock sat up, glaring. “I? I? Miss that slobbering mongrel? By no means!” He plunked back down again, causing the couch to shake a bit as his head hit the arm rest.

John pursed his lips. “Alright then. I’ll just go by myself.” He turned back to the laptop and began typing a reply. He didn’t notice Sherlock turn back to glance at him with a look of dissatisfaction on his face, then go back to tuning his violin dangerously flat.

Sherlock waited for John to leave before he put his day clothes on. He calculated how long it would take John to ride a cab over to Taylor’s, how long it would take to get past the inevitable pleasantries, and how long John was likely to stay there. After he’d given John plenty of time to talk and play with Toby, Sherlock hurried out of the flat and hailed a cab, instructing it to take him to Taylor’s apartment. When he arrived he walked casually over to the alley John had so cleverly chosen as his break-in place. But to Sherlock’s surprise, he could still here John and Taylor’s voices drifting through the open window of her bedroom.

 _How long does it take to say goodbye to someone you barely know?_ he wondered.

Irritated, he leaned against the wall and waited, listening to their idle chatter intermingled with playful woofs from the dog. After what seemed like hours (although his clock, which was obviously on their side, claimed it was only half an hour), he heard John bid Taylor farewell and then (ridiculously enough, through _tears_ ) say goodbye to Toby. He heard the door close, then Taylor saying some things in a strangely squishy voice to the dog. He smiled triumphantly when she said she was going to do some shopping and Toby would have to stay behind. Here was his opportunity.

He crept around to the front again and watched her leave, waited for her to notice she’d forgotten her purse, go back in and get it, and come out again, hail a cab, and _finally_ drive off. Then he ran back to the alley, cracked his knuckles, pulled down the fire escape ladder (he didn’t even need to stand on a trash can to reach it, just had to leap once or maybe twice), scrambled up, and thrust his head through the open window.

Toby sat on the floor below, looking up at him and swishing his tail.

“Oh,” Sherlock said.

“Mr-r-rf,” Toby said.

Sherlock eased himself into the room and knelt on the floor beside the dog. Toby craned his neck up to sniff him, deducing things about him, Sherlock guessed with a smile. He held out his hand for Toby to sniff, but to his surprise the dog simply leaned on him, blinking his big eyes slowly and letting out a huffing breath.

It was a pleasant feeling, warm and soft on his palm, and Sherlock instinctively rubbed his fingers through the dog’s fur. Toby leaned on him more heavily, finally tilting so far he fell over onto his back. Sherlock laughed and plunged both hands into the fur on Toby’s belly, massaging the favored areas to make Toby kick his back legs. The dog let out little snorts of pleasure and wriggled under Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock found he enjoyed the sensation almost as much as Toby did. Finally tired out, Toby rolled away from him and stood. He gave himself a shake that turned his right ear inside out. Sherlock laughed at him, causing Toby to bark in protest. Before he knew quite what he was doing, Sherlock lifted the dog into his arms and buried his nose in his fur.

Toby didn’t protest, but snuggled closer to Sherlock and rested his chin on his shoulder. It took Sherlock a moment to realize exactly what he’d done, and when he did realize it, he pulled the dog away and held him at arm’s length. He stared at the furry face and Toby stared back, head cocked inquisitively.

“It’s not like I like you,” Sherlock said.

Toby’s ears pricked up.

Sherlock set the dog back down and closed his eyes, as a door from his Mind Palace blew open from the wind of emotion. Memories of his own childhood dog tumbled out the door and for the first time in years, Sherlock faced them. The fun he and his companion had together. The joy. The belly rubs. The times they’d run through the hall together…

Carefully, Sherlock gathered the memories back together, stacked them neatly into the proper room, and closed the door. But this time he hesitated before locking it. He decided to leave it unlocked, just for today. In case he wanted to take another look sometime.

Toby nuzzled Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock gave him one last rub around the ears and stood to go. Toby watched him climb out the window and disappear. He let out a single bark; Sherlock couldn’t tell if it was of protest or of farewell. He jumped back into the alley and started walking towards Baker Street.

He’d have to make another room, he realized as he walked. There were so many facts connected to this dog now, it was foolish to let them run rampant through his mind. John’s first case, Toby the dog, Taylor the runaway. An abusive husband and unsympathetic parents. Really, it was all so mundane, it sounded like your average newspaper article. But the dog had spiced things up a bit. John had been right. But it had been John’s case after all.

Pulling out the music he’d begun composing at the start of the case. Sherlock began to work on the last movement. He’d play it for John when Taylor left. He knew John would miss her and the dog. Toby was certainly an extraordinary hound. 


End file.
